


hail to the king

by venomedveins



Series: of magic & monsters [11]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Blood Drinking, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Lactation, M/M, Magic, Mpreg, Multi, Royalty, Shapeshifters - Freeform, Smut, Vampires, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 16:01:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6963487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venomedveins/pseuds/venomedveins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agron and Nasir have finally arrived at Galena - their home castle. Yet, they cannot escape the plot that fate has laid out for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hail to the king

**Author's Note:**

  * For [habibinasir (lulu_kitty)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lulu_kitty/gifts).



> This has been a long time coming, and I am so appreciative of everyone's love and support while I struggle with my hands being fucked up. That being said, I hope you all enjoy this chapter.
> 
> Above all, I want to thank habibinasir who has been amazing and supportive and put up with all my crazy headcannons and helps me name a whole bunch of people and describe things. 
> 
> Today is her birthday, so go tell her how amazing she is, because without her, this fic would have never happened.

Shimmering in the winter sun, Galena stands a fortress unrivaled by any other. The city itself is surrounded by a large wall, patterned with huge silver moons forged from thick metal that serve as reinforcement for the already thick stones. The spikes on top are long and thick, pointed towards the sky, the main gate made of the same material. Inside, the city spans in all directions, markets and houses, shops and forges. It is a maze of white washed buildings and slate roofs. Everywhere there are huge symbols the moon, statues of wolves, flags shimmering with blue, crimson, and gold. The air is crisp enough that it gives everything a frosted over appearance, ice clinging to the windowpanes on some of the houses. In the center, the castle proper stands, a beacon with stones that shimmer silver. Each tower is topped with a pointed cap, their slim windows bright and glowing, balconies spanning along the edges with guard on every wall. They do not move nor lean over the edge to see the royal party, but instead hold position perfectly. The main door on the castle is different than the cool stones surround it, two large wooden pieces that fit together with an intricate weaving of chains, locks, and metal.

The peasants litter the street to watch the royal party make their way to the castle, leaning out of doorways and windows, crowding in from alleys. They are different than the peasants that travel to the summer lands, gaunter and extravagant in their dress. They do not wear dark furs and leather straps, but instead bundles of metallic linens and white cloaks of fur made from the wolves found in the mountains. It is a crowd of stars, glinting in the light with their jewelry and chains. They throw flower petals and confetti as the royal party moves through the cobblestones, thousands of colors cascading down, singing at the top of their voices in one loud voice. 

"What do they sing?" Nasir asks, saying it in the common tongue for fear it is insulting to ask in Alptraum. It does not sound like they are speaking real words, something foreign and sharp. 

"It is the song of the king, It’s in Old Alptraum, the tale of the lost wolf being guided by the light of the moon back to his kingdom." Agron replies, grinning over to his husband. He looks perfect, a wondrous king crafted with the Alptra royal blood, the cheekbones, the ring of gold in his hair. There is no one else that could ever hold this title, could have seem as perfect to be king as Agron. "They are welcoming you home."

“They do not know me though. How can they rejoice when I am a stranger to them?” 

Nasir looks around, watches an old woman press her wrinkled hands to her face, crying openly. A younger woman wraps her arms around her, the tears on her face dripping down into the old woman’s gray hair. He does not want to say what he is thinking, feeling towards these people. The ones behind him, the ones wrapped in leather and furs, the ones that Nasir has pressed his hands against to heal and who saw the horrors of what Gerulf did to him, those are his people. The ones before him, dripping in excess and finery, hidden behind their wall, they seem more distant the very stars.

“They do not need to know you yet, nor you them. It is not who you are that they love; it is what you represent.” Agron points to the banners fluttering in the wind, the catching of blue, crimson, and gold. Painted upon it, a wolf stands on two legs, its front kicking towards the sky. “The colors of Galena have hung purple and bronze for over thirty-five years. Now, they fly anew.”

The crowd is full of different faces, different expressions. Some people openly weep, others praying or singing loudly. There are those who lift their hands towards the royal couple, held back by guards but struggling to touch them. Nasir does not know what would happen if he reached out and touched them, took their hand. He has danced in the halls of kings before, laid under emperors and nobles, has even been told that one he served was next in line for godliness. But this, the energy that pumps through the crowd, the pressure of their joy, is suffocating in a way that Nasir has never experienced before. 

“Should they not mourn the loss of their king? We carry his ashes to be laid beside his brothers in the hall of royals. A whole generation has passed, and only Dietrich and his hunting lands remain of that time.” 

Nasir’s waves a hand at a group of young women who call out to him, speaking rapid Alptraum and tossing hyacinths before his feet. The cone shaped flowers burst from the stalk, littering the ground in purples, pinks, and white. He can barely understand them, still new enough to the language to not be able to speak that quickly, only being able to recognize the flowers as gifts of love, fertility, and for the “little one”. Already, the people love the heir. 

Agron looks thoughtful for a moment, green eyes staring up at the approaching castle. He has spent so many winters here, has raced through the halls of the castle as a child, slipped out to the peasant streets as a teenager, stood solemn at the gate as a man poised for war. Galena is part of him. It has always been his home and always will be, the same as the rolling plains and forests in which the Alptraum pitch their tents for the summer months of hunting and festivals. 

“Did we mourn him? Should we have?”

It stings, but not in the way of guilt, but of recognizing. It feels like a reprimand for a sin that Nasir does not feel guilty over, nor does he think he ever will. Stroking a hand down his stomach, Nasir knows there is nothing within the realm of imagining that he would not do for this child. Whatever cost, whatever pain or challenge that comes, Nasir would sacrifice it all to see his child safe, happy, loved. 

“I do not want to be the type of leader that my people celebrate when I am gone,” Nasir whispers, faint and lost in the breeze. Agron seems to hear him through, hand reaching out between the space that separates them, and linking their fingers together. 

Around them, the peasants have begun chanting, thousands upon thousands of voices raised in unison. They keep beat with fists pounding to their chest, so loud that it blocks out the sounds of the horses, the wind howling through the mountains. It is the voice of people freed, no longer blackened by deceit and hatred. Murderous king that sat upon the silver wolf throne, who commanded his people to fight and die, to fall to ruin under his greed. Now, the shadows of the past are slowly fading, hope swelling as Agron and Nasir move forward. 

\- - - 

Laeta is waiting for them when they enter into the castle, the large wooden door creaking ominously as metal chains draw the back. The room they enter is extravagant, long wooden beams extend along the wall, branching out into points where they meet. In the center of the room, instead of a chandelier or light, a huge silver disk hangs suspended. It reflects the lights of the thousands upon thousands of hanging crystals around it, the whole ceiling appearing as if it is the night sky. It seems that all of Galena is designed this way, buttresses and vaultings perfectly placed to automatically draw the eye up. It makes sense that it is formed this way, the Alptraum's mind never far from their mother goddess. 

Nasir wants to crane his head back and look at the stained glass in the arches, the colors glittering in the crystals above them, but he's instantly distracted by the large group of people waiting for them. Laeta stands triumph in the center, red hair piled high on her head as she balances her large book against her hip. To her left, a few of the council members stand, as well as servants, cooks, porters, and soldiers, all smiling broadly. To her right, two rows of people bow with knees and eyes to the ground. They are dressed differently in lovely intricate tunics and dresses, embroidered with carefully braided hair and jewels. The only thing unifying them are the sashes draped from their left shoulder down to their right hip, alternating between crimson and cerulean.

“Welcome to Galena!” Laeta greets, her grin wide and teeth sharp. All of the group bows low when Agron leads Nasir forward, hand warm on the small of his back. 

"It is a most joyous return after a long and laborious journey," Agron motions for the group to stand. It strikes Nasir as a practiced motion, something he’s done a thousand times even though Nasir has never seen it. "Nasir and I are happy to finally be home. I trust everything has been planned and arranged properly?"

"Yes, your highness." Laeta nods, spreading her hands wide. “The castle has been prepared for your arrival and servants have been chosen from the top households to serve you and your consort.”

“Servants?” Nasir glances over at the group of men and women, eyes still trained to the floor, “I don’t-“

“Yours, of course highness, are dressed in your house emblems of crimson and gold. The ones to serve his majesty king are adorned in blue,” Laeta props her book open against her hip, “They were the colors requested by your majesties months ago. When the heir is born, we shall choose servants to be added to your house to aid, if you so request it.”

“I did not realize our house would be so separate,” Nasir slowly looks up at Agron, confused, but Agron is disinterestedly picking at one of the leather straps around his wrist. He does not seem to notice Nasir’s bristling, the feeling of discomfort twisting inside of him. 

“Highness, upon your request, the council will gather within the throne room in a short while for the meeting. It will be followed by the welcoming banquet and festivities.” Laeta addresses Agron now, “Do you require anything else?”

“No,” Agron waves a hand, sighing deeply. “See to the unpacking of the carts and supplies. I want a carefully compiled list of our holdings given to Mira by this evening as well as a full report on guards and military supply to Spartacus and Crixus. Everything within this castle needs to be accounted for, as well as any order my father may have placed before his passing.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Laeta curtsies smoothly, clapping a hand at a few of the servants who quickly scuttle from the room. “And your majesty?” She turns to look at Nasir now, brow raised. 

Behind Nasir, he can feel Pietros shifting, stepping forward just enough to brush his cold fingers over Nasir’s palm. He does not know what to say, suddenly struck speechless as a few pink and green rays play along the stone walls. It is the reflection of the sun through the stained glass window, a huge wolf devouring what appears to be a half man, half beast. The blood in the window is what is casting the light, red diluted to dull magenta. Nasir feels a kindred spirit towards the victim, a scream frozen inside of him as well. Beside him, Naevia steps up too, her eyes narrowed and defensive. It seems that have noticed Nasir’s trembling, his hooded gaze. 

“Show the consort to his rooms. I would have him well rested and prepared for this evening.” Agron replies gruffly, glancing up when Laeta makes a considering noise. “You disagree with the command of your king?”

“No, highness, it is just that I am not sure the elders and council members would agree with his placement due to the lack of coronation,” Laeta does not look at Nasir, and yet it feels that the whole room turns to look at him. 

“My husband will sit beside me at the royal table and tomorrow I will put the fucking crown on his head. If there are any questions of his status, I will be happy to address them at the end of my sword.” 

Agron growls, turning to block Nasir’s view of the room, ignoring Laeta’s quick response. She apologizes, sweeping low, but it’s lost in the shuffle, Agron making sure to have Nasir’s attention. He stoops a little, careful when he reaches up, stroking a thumb over Nasir’s cheek. 

“Go to your room and get settled. I am sure the servants can draw you a bath and you can rest,” Agron smiles, though it seems sharper in the play of shadows and candles. 

“You aren’t-“ Nasir’s eyes drift behind him where the servants are, still standing stiffly, barely appearing to be breathing. The one on the end, dark curling hair and a soft curve to her body, glances up, instantly shuddering when she meets Nasir’s gaze. 

“It is a technicality, tradition. You know that I will not abandon you,” Agron cups Nasir’s face between his hands, drawing him back. Nasir’s eyes are dark, alight with fire and anger, but the bags under his eyes, the soft curl of his mouth, dampen the effect with exhaustion. “Nasir-“

“If that is what the king commands,” Nasir tries to smile, tries to make light of it, but he knows it fails as Agron’s expression flickers, brow coming down. 

“I will join you shortly.” Agron lingers a kiss against Nasir’s mouth, nuzzling there for as long as he can and keep it innocent before pulling away. He’s just about to turn, following Spartacus towards a door all the way to the right, when Agron turns back around, cloak fanning behind him. 

“Laeta?” He addresses, voice booming in the huge hall. 

“Majesty.” Laeta nearly drops to her knees when she bows, dipping her head low. 

“I would see my brother’s rooms moved closer to Nasir’s, as well as his guard. He can have his old suite that he had when Isolde stayed in the consort wing.” 

It’s a simple enough command, a rearranging of space, but the grin that dimples Agron’s cheeks is complicated. He doesn’t direct it towards Nasir nor Duro, but over Nasir’s shoulder, bowing his head slightly at Pietros. The younger man instantly flushes, trying to smother the delight at Agron’s gentle favor – a thought that he didn’t have to bring to fruition and yet did. For Pietros’ benefit just as much as Duro’s and Auctus’ and Barca’s. 

Laeta readily agrees and with that, the group disbands in opposite directions, red one way and blue the other. 

\- - - 

The consort's wing is in the far east side of the castle, suspended between two large towers. Upon entering through a large ornate door covered in intricate wooden flowers, birds, and deer, a visitor would find themselves in the main sitting room, flanked along the left wall in large picturesque windows. The walls are richly decorated in tapestries and paintings, the same forest and creature theme throughout with crystal chandeliers suspended above from the tall, vaulted ceilings. Jewel toned cushions litter the floor, settees placed comfortably close to fireplaces and bookshelves, thick blankets of fur and embroidered cloth thrown over all of them. There are tables to play cards and eat, a large teardrop shaped lamp in the corner perfect for reading or sewing. Even the carpets over the stone floor are embroidered in leaves and stars. 

From that main room, many doors branch off, a series of other rooms and even more doors connecting them. There are rooms for the servants, rooms to dress, parlors to entertain, storage for any goods that the consort may claim, and the bath. The master bedroom is a thing of wonder, at the very far end of the suite. The double doors, gilded in gold and white, open into a large room with huge windows leading out to the balcony on the left side. Someone has taken the time to paint the night sky on the tall ceiling, thousands of crystals hanging here too along with disks of silver and metal. The bed is reminiscent of the one in the summer tent, huge and ornate carved wood and vines, the headboard a twisted knot of leaves and flowers. The canopy overhead is sheer, a mix of fabrics falling over one another to create a safe enclosed space for the royal couple. 

On the very far right, another door leads into the nursery. It has clearly been redesigned for the heir, everything placed with careful precision. Agron's beautifully crafted cradle standing center with its mobile hung carefully overhead. The furniture here is earthier, wooden chests and tables, a shelf full of stuffed toys and wooden blocks. Instead of a tapestry, someone has painted a large mural of animals - tigers and lions and wolves and snakes. They move through a thick jungle, a splatter of golden fireflies lit by candles lending light to the room. 

Nasir stands in awe at the doorway, eyes tracking over the curved wooden rocking chair in the corner, placed so that if he sat in it, he would have a perfect view of the mountains. Even though he knows it is his, his home now, Nasir can't seem to wrap his mind around it. This lavishness, the overly indulgent design of the space, the suffocating details even down to the glass doorknobs on every room. Even the soft rug of fur under his feet seems unreal, too perfect to be his. 

"Your majesty." One of the servants pipes up, her golden curls framing her face. Behind her, the five others linger, eyes downcast and hands clasped before them. "How would you have us serve you?"

Nasir can't help but glance at Pietros and Naevia, looking for answers that aren't theirs to give. He is king and it is his say to decide what he wants, but Nasir does not know. He does not know what he should ask for, what is his, how to do this. He is lost without Agron’s gentle hand on his back, his guiding voice. Thankfully, Naevia steps forward, a kind smile on her face as if she can read his confusion. 

"Your highness," It seems strange for Naevia to be so formal, but Nasir supposes he must get used to it now. "Laeta did not explain to you the role of these men and women. Your servants are more than just the ones to lay plates before you or clean. They are part of your household now. They will accompany you to all social functions, court and parties, as well as any intimate occasions you seem fit. They will be your companions while at court and should not leave your side unless you so command it. It is a great honor to be chosen to serve you and King Agron."

"I am pleased and honored to be in such high company. Laeta says you are chosen from the best households?" Nasir smiles at the blond, nodding at her gently. He can see her debating on whether or not to speak, but she finally relents. 

"Yes, majesty." The girl bows low. "All of us are from the highest and noblest of houses, having been hand chosen for your and the king's pleasure. We are all skilled in song, dance, sewing and embroidery, of course, as well as more intimate matters. We are untouched and desiring to serve you in all means necessary."

"Untouched?" Nasir startles, again looking to Pietros' confused and furrowed face and then back to Naevia's. "Why does that matter?"

“We are well trained!” The woman quickly states, hands raising as if she means to reassure Nasir, freezing in place. “But it is a careful training where we remain unblemished for you.”

The girl shifts uncomfortably before Nasir, trained well enough not to look back at her companions. Nasir can see her quick breath, expanding her dress tight over her ribs. Behind her, a boy begins to tremble, drawing his bottom lip into his mouth. He’s lovely, perfect cheekbones and a small puckered mouth stained a sandy rose against his tan skin. Nasir begins to feel the red hot swelling of realization in his chest, horror turning to rage as he turns fully to face Naevia, arms over his chest. 

"It is not what you think-" Naevia swallows, not even managing to finish the lie before Nasir curls his lip. 

"Are they here to _fuck_ me?" Nasir snarls, the venom in his voice completely human. It does not matter though, the words sharp and vicious, hands curling at his sides as if he means to control the flames that his magic won’t supply. 

"They are for your pleasure or your convenience. Traded for favors, sent to the king as gifts," Naevia cringes even as she says it, already knowing what is about to happen even before she gets all the words out. "I was part of Agron's house as was Mira and Spartacus and Crixus. It is how we came to find ourselves in such high ranks."

"So that means," Nasir's eyes widen huge, nose wrinkling. "So are Agron's?"

"Yes." Naevia looks away, blush staining her cheeks. She was only traded once, only once, before Crixus committed an unforgiveable crime. It was the first time Agron ever used his position to save a life, and for that, Naevia will be eternally grateful. 

“You mean to tell me that-“ Nasir waves a hand towards the servants, “I am supposed to just bed them? Or Agron can bed them? Whenever he wants. Whenever I want. I just have to command it.”

“You are king.” Naevia cringes, her face wrinkling with the distaste of it. 

"No!" Nasir shouts it bitter and sharp and the servants startle, dropping to their knees. "I will not!"

"No one said you had to," Pietros soothes, turning to watch as the servants break just long enough to look at each other, obviously afraid. They do not understand what has angered their king. 

"Do I look like my fucking father?" Nasir actually stomps his foot, turning to glare between Naevia and Pietros. Then, shaking his head, he turns back to the servants. 

"All of you, on your feet." He motions quickly, waiting until they have all risen before he begins. 

"If I am your king and we are to be companions then I would have no secrets between us and no misunderstandings." Nasir glances at each of them, drawing their gaze. "You have been promised status and positon by gaining favor by fucking the king and I. Or being given to nobles or others to gain favor for this kingdom," Nasir does not try to censor it, shrugging. "That is not your fate."

The woman glances at another, both of their eyes narrowing before turning back, clearly confused. 

“The king and I have no intention of sharing our bed with anyone else. I did not fall pregnant on my wedding night because I could not keep my husband’s interest,” Nasir shakes his head, sighing deeply. “Nor will I sell you like cattle to gain favor or promises. I do not need slaves, I need-“

Nasir pauses for a moment, choking on the word. It is not a word he can say, not a thing that he can command or beg for. He is a king and he doubts that Agron ever asked for his servants to be his _friends_. Spartacus and Agron’s friendship had nothing to do with servitude or the cowing presence of king’s commands and crowns. The same fire that burns behind Agron’s eyes gets its source from Spartacus’, an inferno of long talks at night and the rage that shimmers from too long under evil men’s heels. 

Nasir straightens himself, smiling warmly. “I need allies. I need loyalty. If you can promise me these, then I will promise that I will do everything in my power to protect you. You may feel safe as one of my most trusted. You may take to your bed whom you will, and if I can, I would see you all married to honorable people – ones of your own choosing – if that is what you wish.”

“Majesty,” The woman before shifts, stepping half a step forward before freezing, suddenly remembering her place. 

“You may speak,” Nasir smiles lightly. Beside him, Pietros moves closer, slipping his hand into Nasir’s, squeezing warmly. 

“Why do you do this? We are meant to serve you, and yet you offer kindness without us showing you proper servitude. Do you not desire us to please you?” She blushes after her words, seeming ashamed at her boldness. 

Nasir steps forward, gently touching the woman's face with his hand. She does not flinch, but slowly raises her blue eyes to look at him, calculating. "What is your name?"

"Chadara," The woman bows her head just slightly, still enraptured by Nasir's fierce gaze. 

"Under King Gerulf’s rule, I would have been subjected to the same fate you would have been. He meant to pass me from son to son to friend and foe and those willing to pay,” Nasir shakes his head, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “But that king is dead, and my husband reigns most high. And the era of suffering and fear is over. There is hope now, in this kingdom, in this castle, and inside of me.” He lovingly strokes a hand over his stomach. “And I will never let someone’s fate fall to the hands of greedy and evil men again.”

He waits with baited breath, watching each of them, watching them calculate – to slowly begin to trust. It does not take long, the full effect of his words seeming to take over. 

“Highness,” Chadara falls to her knee, bowing her head, “My loyalty and my life is yours.”

Slowly, each one drops, bowing and giving promises. Nasir was not expecting it, flickering his eyes up to Pietros when he squeezes his hand. The look on his friend’s face is unreadable, something like awe and confusion, pulling his hand away from Nasir’s only to bow as well. It’s suddenly too much, the weight of his position, the people before him that he does not yet know, swearing themselves to him. Only a few months ago, Nasir had stood as nothing more than a lowly street performer. A magician with his hands and his body, but now – now he stands a high king, thick with an heir and with a full kingdom devoted to him. He does not have to say anything though, thankfully, Naevia steps forward. 

“The king is very tired and has been on the road a long time. Go and draw him a bath, please, and have a small meal brought up.” She guides Nasir back, gently pushing him to sit on the bed. He does so willingly, groaning as his body relax into the soft cushion. 

The servants quickly slip out of the room, moving around to gather the water and supplies for the bath, a quiet calm shuddering over the space. Naevia waits until they are preoccupied before gently shutting the door, turning back to study Nasir. He’s removed his cloak, tossing it behind him along with his crown, beginning to work his fingers through the thick plait of his hair. At his feet, Pietros has started to untie the many latches and buckles of his boots. 

“Nasir,” Naevia starts gently, coming to stand near him, “You did a very honorable thing just then.”  
“What? By not allowing them to become slaves?” Nasir rolls his eyes, shaking his hair out, “Trust me, none of them have the cock that I want right now.”

Naevia shares a smirk with Pietros, shaking her head. She knows that Nasir is deflecting, not allowing himself to see what good he is doing the people of Alptra. Their loyalty extends beyond just adoration for Nasir and Agron, but to a loyalty forged by kindness and honor. Neither have made any moves to hurt the peasants, to harm them as Gerulf did. There is no greed or anguish inflicted, only hope. 

“Should I send one of the servants to fetch the king?” Naevia teases, smirk lifting one side of her mouth, “Perhaps Chadara can bring the message.”

“And what would it say?” Nasir groans when Pietros finally gets his shoes off, leaning back on his arms. He mutters quiet thanks in Pythonissan, rolling his ankles a bit.

“Your highness,” Pietros slowly drawls, standing and stretching his arms above his head, “You are needed for the highest emergency. The consort swears if you don’t come fuck his brains out, he may wither away to nothing. The fate of your kingdom depends on your ability to raise cock.” 

“He is overtaken by lust from the memory of your cock,” Naevia adds in, adding in a moan for effect. “And may fall into delirium if he is not sated immediately.”

“As if he would come. Your mother,” Nasir tosses a pillow at Naevia, “has reprimanded him so thoroughly he won’t even touch me below the waist with anything but his hand. He thinks it will somehow upset the baby, as if our child will know what Agron is doing and hate him for it. I fear when he finally does get around to fucking me, I will be so tight it will take ages.”

“Not something I ever needed to hear.” A voice sounds from the bedroom doorway, Duro leaning against the jam of it, scowling in distaste. Behind him, Auctus stands tall and rigid, eyes completely still as they stare at the opposite wall. He looks ever much the bodyguard, fingers loosely resting on the hilt of his sword.

“Perhaps you should warn your brother then,” Pietros giggles, moving towards Duro It’s magnetic, the slide of Duro’s hands over Pietros’ waist, pulling him in. “He may break his cock in half if he does not please his consort soon. Passage will be too tight to allow entry.”

“I have no desire to tell my brother how to fuck anyone,” Duro shakes his head, eyes straying just for a moment away from Pietros’ face to Nasir’s, “nor his cock spoiled consort.”

“Cock spoiled!” Nasir struggles to stand, using one hand wrapped around the bedpost to finally draw himself to his feet. “I will have you know-“

“I do not want to know,” Duro pulls Pietros towards him, using him as a buffer as Nasir approaches, “I only meant to steal the head of your household and see my childhood bedroom put to good use.”

Nasir huffs, curling his arms over his chest. He does not get a chance to say what he really wants to, a biting retort just on the tip of his tongue, when Chadara steps around Duro, her hands holding a long and pale towel before her. She’s pulled back more of her hair, the ringlets looking soft and golden around her cheeks. 

“Apologies for interrupting, majesty, but your bath is ready.” 

“Thank you.” Nasir smiles at her, turning his gaze quickly back to Duro’s sly grin and Pietros’ pleading expression. He knows they want his blessing to go off and fuck, to roll around in Duro’s probably huge princely bed, to entice Auctus and Barca in as well. Nasir can’t even be angry about it, instead jealousy coiling in his stomach. Ever since the incident with the creature and Agron nearly dying, neither royals have touched each other outside of heated kisses that lead to nowhere. 

“Go.” Nasir sighs irritably, waving his hands. It is better to see them both pleased then to watch Pietros’ longing gaze shift over to the door every few moments if he’s denied. “But I expect you back before dinner and properly put back together. It would not do my house any service if the head of it ended up too cock drunk to stand.”

“We will try out best.” Duro mockingly bows, flourishing his hand in a quick circle.

Pietros quickly darts forward, kissing Nasir’s cheek before being pulled from the room, laughing at something that Duro has whispered into his ear. Nasir waits until he hears the front door click, the apartments falling silent before turning to glance at Chadara. She looks at the floor, but the stain on her cheeks tells that she’s heard everything that has been said in the room. Nasir supposes that her shyness to such crude humor will fade quickly, considering that none of the royals seem to be able to filter their speech.

“I would have my bath now,” Nasir begins to slip his fingers through the buttons on his tunic, unabashedly tossing the fabric away from him when he finally gets it open. He doubts that this will be the last time Chadara nor Naevia will see him half-naked. “If you could but show me where.”

“Follow me, highness.” Chadara bows slightly, pushing open the door and into the main apartment. Naevia loops her arm through Nasir’s, patting it sympathetically before drawing him away from the bedroom and down the hall. 

\- - - 

It has been many years since Dietrich has stepped foot into Galena, has roamed her long corridors, stood in the doorway of the grand meeting hall. The room itself is mostly the same, the portraits of kings before lining the walls, eyes cold and mouths firm. The stained glass is a scene from a battle, wolves' eyes glowing from the sunlight as they rip the limbs off of other shapeshifters, their teeth gleaming sharp and deadly. The pane of the triumphant Alpha wolf stands right behind the king's chair, Dietrich's oldest nephew settling himself into the carved wood with a grimace. 

A ray of golden light filters through and across Agron's face, his eyes reflecting chartreuse before he leans the other way and away from it. Dietrich's mind wanders to a time before, when the same thing had happened, Gerulf settling himself down into that very chair. His hands were still stained with the blood of his brother, the crown dripping crimson onto his cheeks. 

Agron stands clean though, thanking a servant for a cup of wine before turning to whisper to Spartacus. He may have Gerulf's jawline, his set of shoulders, but there is Isolde inside of him too. His soft mouth, the shape of his knowing eyes when he turns to look down the table. Dietrich is still trying to find his nephew in this man, the Agron that Dietrich had watched slaughter a gryphon in mid-air when he was ten. 

"Council members," Agron addresses, holding his hands up. Dietrich can see a thick golden ring around his finger, the wolf cuff around his wrist entwined with a snake. "Let us sit and begin."

Men and women move towards the long table, taking their place. To Agron's direct right, Spartacus sits with Crixus beside him, both dressed in the cerulean blue of Agron’s house colors, armor strapped on tight. Next is Mira, Tove, Dietrich himself, and finally Saxa. On the other side, Solonius, Castus, and the other elders sit - Vettius, Ovidius, Licinia, and Pericles. They are not Agron's chosen, but old relics of Gerulf's time. Dietrich cannot imagine them saying or having any part in any of Agron’s master plan for his kingdom. 

"Where is my brother?" Agron addresses on the servants whom bows deeply, eyes downcast. 

"He complained of strong pain in his head and gave his deepest apologies," the boy cannot be older than sixteen, trembles in fear.

Sighing deeply, Agron waves his hand. He knows what that means, Duro sneaking off probably to draw Pietros or Auctus or even Barca into his bed. He doubts that Nasir put a stop to it either, not knowing how it would look for Duro not to sit on the council. He doesn't bother to give voice or implication of the annoyance, but instead sets his wine glass on the table and turns his attention to the gathered party. 

"My father is dead," Agron starts out with the obvious, slowly curling the fingers on his right hand. His knuckles look large and sharp in the light. "Tomorrow, I would see myself and my consort crowned and placed upon the throne. With Nasir's pregnancy drawing near an end, it would be beneficial for us to do this quickly and without incident before he is restricted to his bed."

"The people would rejoice at such a ceremony." Licinia smiles, nodding at Agron. "I am sure Laeta and I can prepare something suitable for the occasion."

"Do so," Agron nods, continuing. He can't ever fucking remember having a full conversation with her, her gold curls pulling no sense of recognition from him. "After the coronation, I will name my chosen council and advisors for my reign.”

“You will _choose_ your council men?” Solonius sneers the word, dripping in disdain not fit for his positon nor for addressing his king. “You plan to change us out? I would advise-”

“I do not care what you advise. As my father did and his father before,” Agron eases back into his seat, leaning on an elbow, “It is the tradition of kings to pick their men. And I am king, after all, am I not, good Solonius?”

Agron lets his mind wander for a moment, remembering the dark look in Gerulf’s eyes when he had sliced Agron’s wrist in front of the Pythonissa, the curling grin. He had done it deep enough that Agron knew he was going to die, bleed out if that little dancer hadn’t saved him. Agron had been arrogant, too sure of himself, and yet with one quick move of Gerulf’s hand, he had been pushed to the very brink of death. Solonius did not realize that Agron held him in the same position, but unlike Agron, there was no Nasir to save him. 

“I meant no offense,” Solonius nods deeply. He’s holding a small dagger on the table, the type you would slice fruit with, spinning it on its tip. 

“And yet I think that you did,” Agron raises a slow eyebrow, eyes tracking over the table. He shifts, shoulders dragging along the metal of his big chair. He doesn’t have to curl his lip for the growl to be there, an alpha down to the very core of his being. 

“Your majesty,” Solonius tries laughing, a scoffing little sound in the back of his throat, like the cough of a drowning man. 

“I know some of you are having a hard time adjusting to this shift in power. My father was king for a long time and that sort of loyalty can breed distrust and arrogance. I am sure Gerulf promised you many things for your servitude, and because those were whispered in the dark and behind backs, I have no record nor any intention of honoring any of it.”

The council bristles, shared looks and hooded eyes. A tension is building within the room, choking out the burning sunlight. The soldiers at the door shift, armor clinking together softly. Agron looks unfazed, casually leaning on an elbow. Dietrich has seen the lounging position on Gerulf’s body too. Cocky and sure of himself, Agron just smirks slow as Solonius swallows. 

“Majesty,” Castus speaks up, carefully and controlled, “I am not sure that there is a record of the arrangement between Alptra and Pontas. Yet, my men and myself still desire to serve you.”

“Serve me or my consort?” Agron’s eyes shimmer deeper green, canines looking sharp when he grins cruelly. 

“The royal family,” Castus cows under the look, glancing for just a moment down the table. The other elders shift, but don’t betray their thoughts, each of them subdued when Agron looks at them. He finally relents with a thick scoff, tinged by laughter that is bitter. It is not a consent or a denial.

“Messages should be sent out to the surrounding kingdoms welcoming them to Galena to celebrate the crowning of the king and the soon to be heir. By the time they receive the information, the child will be born,” Agron takes a slow drag of his wine, eyes tracking over the table. 

“Are we going to begin trading again with Kasabia in Taurant? The city was once a great ally to us.” Pericles speaks up, carefully choosing his words. He, of course, would have great stock in creating trade routes again, having a large hand in the fabric trade of Alptra. 

“It is something to be discussed.” Agron shakes his hand out for a moment, “But that is a longer conversation and we have just arrived in Galena. Let us close this meeting with promises of the future and move towards preparing for the evening’s festivities.”

The dismissal is apparent but still awkward, the men and women on the right side of the table getting up slow while Gerulf’s old pack seems to scurry from the room even before the guards have a chance to open the door. Agron remains seated, tossing the cup of wine back and motioning for another. Without the sunlight across his face, he suddenly looks much older to Dietrich, only managing to catch a glimpse before Tove and Saxa usher him out of the door. 

\- - - 

Staring into the fireplace, Pietros lets his eyes droop, watching the play of sparks along the logs. They had lit them to fight off the billowing chill from outside, hiding sticks of hickory and cedar deep within the pile to fill the room with a sweet, earthy scent. No one had bothered with the candles, the room warm but dark, a deep amber glow emanating from each hearth.

Wrapping in a blanket of soft gray and black fur, Pietros tucks his bare feet under him on the settee. He can just make out the snores and sighs of the others sleeping in their rooms, doors open in case the king should require them. It seems they have all fallen asleep now, napping together as the sun sets just outside. Behind Pietros, in the master bedroom, Nasir lays sprawled on his bed, barely having made it from the bath and into a soft robe before succumbing. 

The warmth of the room coupled by the long journey has Pietros' eyes blinking, on the cusp of sleep himself, when the soft click of the front door catches his attention. After Laeta's quick and efficient training, Pietros knows to expect the announcement of whoever enters, but the rooms remain silent and the long, dark shadow creeps through, shutting the door behind him. Terror grips at Pietros' chest, his breath catching sharply as the inky outline moves across the floor, measured and careful not to make any noise. It is not until the figure steps into the light that Pietros is able to unfreeze himself, sighing in relief when Agron notices him. He instantly draws near to the couch, tossing his cloak off and onto a nearby table.

"Are you the only one awake?" Agron whispers, crouching down until he is level with Pietros, looking incredibly large in the dim light. He's close enough that Pietros can feel his breath on his face, smelling sweetly of wine. 

"Yes." Rolling onto his back, Pietros slips a hand out from under the blanket to point at the master bedroom's door, slightly ajar. "He wanted to wait up for you but he barely made it out of the bath before he fell asleep. I told the rest of the servants to lay down as I figured the banquet tonight would last long into the evening.”

“Everything went smoothly then?” Agron asks. “Nasir is alright?”

“He did not appreciate the surprise of his servants and their suggested duties.” Pietros stares at Agron meaningfully, even behind his sleepy gaze. “You would be proud of him. He handled it very kingly, and promised to protect all of them if they would only swear to be loyal to the crown.”

“And what did they say?” Delighted, Agron glances at the bedroom door. 

“What do you think they said?” Pietros rolls his eyes, resting his head back against the cushion behind him. “If you were told you were to be sold around and used as a bargaining tool for a spoiled king and then when you met your master, he was small and pregnant and wanted you to be safe and happy instead? They fucking adore him.”

“He is a good king. It will not be hard for him to gain allies.” Warmth and affection seep into Agron’s words as he draws back from Pietros. 

“Mhm.” Pietros waves a hand at Agron, already knowing where the other man wants to go.

Agron slips forward, careful to avoid any loose stones or furniture, pausing in the doorway to peer into the bedroom. True to Pietros' words, Nasir is curled on his side on the bed, one hand pressed against his cheek. His wet hair is curling on the pillow, body wrapped in a soft, pale cream robe. It's fallen open in Nasir's sleep, the tie loose at his hip as the fabric parts to show his chest, his stomach. The bottoms of his feet are calloused, having danced a thousand times barefoot, but Agron marvels for a moment at the soft curve of his ankle, the arch of his calf. The fire in the hearth blazes warm and Nasir does not seem cold, glowing bronze and perfect in the light. Agron aches to go to him, but instead steps back, closing the door more in on itself. When he turns, Pietros is sitting up and staring at him. 

"Why do you not lay with him?" Pietros' eyes track over Agron, taking in his carefully embroidered tunic, the leather pants stretched tight over his thighs. He has never looked more regal, but Pietros does not recognize him like this. He, vaguely, misses the Agron from before - half naked and tan, with easy laughter and gentle fingers towards Pietros' best friend.   
"I will jostle the bed and wake him. He needs as much rest as he can gain," Agron retreats and sits down on the other end of the couch, not minding when Pietros stretches out his long legs and places his feet in Agron's lap. 

"You are most considerate," Pietros smirks, easing the blanket back up over his shoulders, "I am sure he wouldn't mind your company though. You know he desires you near him always."

"I, actually, didn't come here to find Nasir." Agron watches Pietros' eyes narrow, calculating. His hand looks huge on Pietros’ ankle, fingers curled along the bone there. He wonders briefly if Duro realizes how much larger he is than Pietros. Sure, he’s tall and broad shouldered, but Pietros has a softness that comes with being barely twenty-one, boyish in his curves. "I came here to find you."

Slowly, Pietros rubs a thumb along his chin, watching Agron before carefully saying. "I am grateful for your favor from before, but if you expect me to repay-"

"No, of course not. Having Duro close to you makes Duro happy, you happy, and Nasir happy. Why would I not order something as simple as moving sleeping quarters?” Agron waves his hand. His features look sharp in the firelight, the shadows flickering over the cut of his jaw, his brow more pronounced. “I came to ask you a favor.”

"What can I do for you?" Pietros strokes his fingers along his blanket. He cannot even begin to imagine what Agron is going to ask for, stuck between morbid curiosity and fearing it. It’s not as if he has forgotten the first favor Agron ever asked of him, making sure that Nasir was sober on their wedding night. It had seemed like a strange request at the time, but then Pietros had watched Agron’s hands, the ones that have been coated in blood, cradle Nasir’s face and kiss him so very gently. There are hidden depths in this king, places that Pietros cannot even begin to understand. 

"It has occurred to me that I have been unfair to Nasir," Agron begins, voice gravel in the dim room, "He has sacrificed and learned much in order to have his position. Yet, I have not done the same for him."

"As attractive as you are, Agron, I fear that neither Nasir nor I can teach you to dance the way we do." Pietros teases, hoping to lighten the mood. It works as Agron rolls his eyes, lightly pinching Pietros' calf. 

"I don't want to learn to dance. I want you to teach me how to speak Pythonissan." Agron replies, smiling when Pietros raises his eyebrows, clearly surprised. 

"But why? Even I am learning Alptraum now. Why cause do you have to learn it?"

"Nasir speaks Pythonissan and will teach our child the language. Should I not be supportive and learn it too?" Agron asks, shrugging a little, “It is part of him, part of our baby, part of you, and I can’t deny that nor do I want to erase it from him.”

“So,” Pietros says slowly, contemplating it, “you want me to teach you our language? Why not ask Nasir to do it?”

“Why did he not ask me to teach him Alptraum?” Agron fires back, mouth coming down, words slipping into harshness. It lingers awkward for a moment before something snaps in place and Pietros’ eyes widen again; the only reaction his face gives away. 

“Summer is coming-“ Agron tries to start, to cut Pietros’ train of thought off, but the younger man is too quick. 

“You think Nasir and I will go back.”

Pietros’ tone is accusatory and bitter, a harsh sort of noticing that stings and Agron glances down at his hands, struggling with the words for a moment. 

“I am not so blind as to not see how homesick you both are. Alptraum culture is a lot different than Pythonissan, and it has not been kind. It is beyond the pregnancy and the crowning, Nasir misses his old life. I do not fault him for that.”

“Fuck you.” Pietros sits up suddenly, reaching out with sharp fingers to grip Agron’s jaw, tugging his face over. He’s close enough that Agron can see the shards of gold and topaz in Pietros’ eyes, the small cut on his bottom lip. “Fuck you and your noticing! You think he will take the baby and run from you? Do you think so low of him-“

“No, Pietros you misunderstand,” Agron takes a deep breath, allowing Pietros to still hold him roughly, “I only meant that I would not fault him for wanting to visit his brothers, your people. Yet, if he were to invite them to court, I would not stand as if blind and deaf fool to them. Nasir has embraced who I am, who my people are, why should I not return the favor?”

“Invite us to court?” Pietros spits the words like a curse, again seeming to think the worst. 

“As our guests,” Agron says fervently, “Not our entertainment.”

“Oh.”

Pietros’ fingers turn soft on Agron’s jaw, stroking for a moment over the stubble before recoiling. He has never really noticed how much Duro looks like Agron, same shoulders, same thick neck, same burning fire within them. At first, Pietros had been afraid of Duro’s blaze, of the rage inside of him, but that sort of heat turned to warmth soon enough. There is something wild in Agron that Pietros thinks he’ll never be able to understand, never grasp. 

“Trust me, Pietros.” Agron smiles is all dimples, all easy coaxing, “There is nothing I want more than Nasir’s happiness. And if it makes you happy as well, then I am doubly blessed.”

“I will teach you Pythonissan,” Pietros pats Agron’s cheek again, surprised he even gets to do this with the king. “But I want payment.”

Agron has to smother his laugh into his fist, slouching back against the couch. He somehow manages to find a cup of wine, taking a slow swallow of it before motioning. “What would you require of your king?”

“Give Barca and Auctus titles,” Pietros mutters, crossing his thin arms over his chest, “And remove Duro as next in line. Give us the freedom to be with one another without sneaking around, hiding behind closed doors and captured moments when Nasir and you need us.”

Agron studies Pietros’ fierce gaze, his strength in making such a request. Any other man Agron would have the right to strike down, to demand status for the man that warms you between your thighs is not something anyone would ever bring before the king. Pietros asks for Agron to dismantle the line of succession, the very line that keeps the wolf family whole, is something that is punishable by death. And yet, Pietros does not falter, fierce and loyal, and Agron is brought back to the memory of Nasir standing in their tent, threatening to fight Agron right then and there if he left him behind. Beautiful and small Nasir with his soft hands and trembling mouth, holding Agron’s sword and threatening the prince, burning to prove his worth. That these two boys desire only to prove themselves, to show the fierceness they both wield inside of them. 

“I could wed you to my brother,” Agron stares openly at Pietros, no malice in his words. “You would be a prince, have your own mass of servants, sit beside Duro at our royal table. No one would ever be able to command you again save for Nasir and I.”

“I do not want to be your brother’s husband,” Pietros snips, shaking his head, “We desire to be all joined. The four of us. It is possible for four men to love each other equally.”

Agron drags his thumb over his bottom lip and shifts his gaze to the bedroom door. He can hear Nasir breathing, can make out the shifting of fabric when he rolls onto his back. There is the steady heartbeat that only Agron’s wolf ears can catch, the second beat just a moment behind the first. Sometimes, Agron lets his mind perversely wonder what would have happened had Nasir been promised to Duro, if they had married instead. He can only imagine the betrayal on Duro’s face, eyes guarded and mouth twisting, if he had ever found them together. Agron is sure that it would have happened, that they would not have been able to resist one another, drawn together by desire and the way fate crafted each other. 

“Would it please you,” Agron starts slow, turning his attention back to Pietros, “if I were to allow you all to marry?”

“All four of us?” Pietros asks, still suspicious and narrow eyed. 

“Yes, of course,” Agron shrugs, “Duro will never have an heir that way, and he will be forced from the line. Auctus and Barca would automatically become part of nobility. I could give them land if they so desired, something tangible to hold to their names.”

“You would do this for me?” Pietros’ voice goes breathless, hopeful, and Agron grins. 

“For you and for Duro, there is little I would not do.”

Pietros flings himself across the couch, wrapping his arms around Agron’s neck. He’s tall enough that his legs easily fling to either side of Agron’s, hugging him with his whole body. He can smell the wine on the king, the golden summer scent of him, the warmth that emanates from the junction of Agron’s neck to his shoulder. It only makes Pietros hug him tighter, laughing through happy tears. 

“Does this please you then?” Agron asks, gently pushing Pietros back. He does it carefully, trying not to align their bodies too much, but affectionately reassuring him.

“Very much.” Pietros lands a dry and quick kiss to Agron’s cheek, hoping up from the couch a moment later. He shakes his limbs out, smoothing his thin shirt down his body, adjusting the twisting of his pants. 

“It will have to take place after the baby is born, and Mira and Spartacus’ promised wedding,” Agron speaks up, unable to keep the joy from his face, indulgent and warm. “But I can see it done.”

“You are a kind and wonderful king.” Pietros stoops again, kissing Agron’s other cheek. His joy is infectious, a blinding light as a small flower blooms behind his ear. He tosses the blankets back across the couch, meaning to go to the door when a soft voice breaks his stride. 

“Pietros? Can you throw another log on the fire? I’m sorry. I’m just so cold.”

Agron stands then, setting his cup of wine on the table nearby. “I will go to him. Stay here and wait. Duro and Tove should be arriving soon to tell us that dinner is prepared, and you can tell them the news then.”

Agron leaves him then, slipping along the thick carpet and through the door of the main bedroom. Nasir hasn’t moved too much, only rolled onto his back with his robe open now but twisted, a strip of skin from his neck to his ankle exposed. His hair has left a wet mark on the silk pillow case, and it’s beginning to dry frizzy. Agron picks up a log, tossing it onto the fire and waiting to hear the hiss catch of the flames before turning back to his husband. 

Slowly, Nasir’s eyes flutter open, a slow and easy smile gracing across his face as he recognizes who stands at his side. Silently, he nuzzles into the silk lined hem of the robe, hiding a yawn there before freeing his hand. He meets Agron’s gaze with his own dark one, curling one finger at him, beckoning him forward with a slight tilt of his mouth. 

Kicking his shoes off, Agron hooks a hand behind his neck and tugs his shirt off as well, tossing the fabric away as he begins to crawl up the length of the bed. Nasir stays still, watching him with half lidded eyes as Agron settles beside him, pressed up on one elbow. Slowly, he traces one finger along the soft cut of Nasir's jaw, following the veins of his neck and onto his collarbone. He pauses there for a moment, fingering the soft edge of the robe, before Agron pushes it back from Nasir's chest. 

With the pregnancy, Nasir's body has changed in more ways than one. His chest is swollen, soft to the touch when Agron eases his hand along it, can feel the slight rise of the muscle underneath. His nipples have darkened too, raising hard in the cool air of the room. Agron eases his thumb over it, watches it raise to the caress. Nasir sighs, a soft exhale as Agron does it again, caressing the skin in small circles.

Slowly, Agron presses his mouth to the curve of Nasir's chest, feels the new weight against his mouth. It's not a true breast, nothing that would appear on a woman, but Nasir's harsh lines seem to have curved, allowing weight to settle where it's needed. Agron traces the edge of it with his tongue, easing higher until he can linger over the dark nipple, ghosting warm breath there. 

Nasir makes a quiet little noise, fingers curling against his cheek. He's flushed, dewy at the temples as Agron watches him, slowly lowering his mouth down to take the bud between his teeth. He bites gently, letting his teeth just hint at sharpness before wrapping his lips firmly around the skin. The first pull brings the skin more into his mouth, Agron's tongue flicking against it gently before doing it again, firmer, when Nasir curses in Pythonissan. 

It only takes a few more draws before the sweet liquid is spilling across Agron's tongue, thin but thickening as Agron's tongue moves back and forth, urging it with gentle suckling. He keeps up the steady pull of his mouth, fingers slipping down between Nasir's warm thighs to tease his fingers to his opening. Above him, Nasir tosses his head back, one hand fisting in Agron's hair, holding him firmly to his chest, hissing. He says something in Pythonissan, curses in Alptra, and then whines in the common tongue, not able to settle as Agron draws the liquid from him. 

Drawing back, Agron pants across Nasir's chest, watches the droplet of milk ease from Nasir's nipple, rolling down to one side. He swipes it with his thumb, bringing it back up to his mouth and lapping the liquid away, unable to look away from Nasir's pink face. Drawing his fingers back to him, Agron plays with his nipple a moment longer, easing another droplet out before sucking this one away, drawing back considering.

"You taste sweet," Agron murmurs, catching Nasir's attention as he eases the robe open on the other side, laying him bare. Against his stomach, Nasir is hard and leaking, leaving a small trail of white along the curve of his hip. 

"I-" Nasir seems unable to finish his thought, staring wide eyed and dazed up at his husband. 

"Perhaps," Agron reaches down then, caresses his fingers against Nasir's other nipple to produce milk there as well, leaning down to lap that away too. "I should taste all of you to be sure."

Nasir whines then, knees drawing up around Agron's waist when he leans down again, suckling again. The pleasure that shoots through him is unlike anything he's felt before, overly sensitive and painful, and yet Nasir insistently pushes against the fingers playing at his opening, suddenly needing Agron inside of him. He can think of nothing else. 

"Please, Agron, please fuck me."

Agron pulls back, a pearly droplet poised on his bottom lip. He laps it away, eyes considering, before shaking his head. "Not until after the baby is born. But-" He speaks over Nasir's whine of protest. "There are many other things I can do to please you that don't involve my cock."

Nasir makes another noise, tugging on Agron’s shoulder desperately. He can’t seem to grip him, but Agron understands, sliding up the bed to fit their mouths together. Nasir instantly opens up under him, easing his fingers through the short, spikes of Agron’s hair, whining when Agron settles between his open legs. It’s Agron that slows them down though, eases his tongue along the sharp edges of Nasir’s teeth, holds the side of his neck and stills his restless thrashing. 

“Calm down,” Agron breathes across Nasir’s bruised and slick mouth, “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

“My love,” Nasir murmurs, hooking his wrists over Agron’s shoulders, holding him there, “I desire you so much. I need you inside of me. I cannot wait any longer.”

Agron makes a noise of displeasure, biting at Nasir’s neck before dragging his mouth back up to Nasir’s. He nips at his bottom lip, brow furrowed in concentration when Nasir attempts to roll his hips against him, needy and desperate. He has no idea what he does to Agron just being like this, smelling sweet like fertility and milk. Agron wants nothing more than to please him, but in this, he cannot. 

"You know I cannot. It is dangerous for me to be within you this close to the end of your pregnancy. Melitta would not say it if it weren’t true." Agron brushes Nasir's hair back from his face. "I could not bear the thought of hurting you."

"It hurts to be without you," Nasir whines, stroking his fingers down Agron's throat, "Please, my king. I would let you go slow, you could only place half of your cock inside of me."

“Only half?” Agron teases gently, “Would that be enough?”

“Half of your cock is the same size as a normal man’s,” Nasir spits, bitter and aiming for catty, but failing when Agron drags his mouth along his neck. He buries his laughter there, warm puffs of air that leave Nasir squirming. 

“You do not wish to be inside me?” Nasir’s eyes go wide, begging in the innocent way only he knows how. 

Agron makes a pained noise, shaking Nasir's hands off of him as he slips down the bed. He drags his hands along Nasir's thighs, pushing them up and open, man handling him where he wants him. Lapping along the crease of Nasir's hip, Agron nuzzles against Nasir's balls, grinning when Nasir shudders. 

"Agron," Nasir moans, slipping a hand down his stomach to lace his fingers through Agron's hair. He can’t decide if he needs to tug or not, massaging his nails along Agron’s scalp instead. 

"Have I ever not given you pleasure?" Agron asks, lapping slowly along the soft skin just behind Nasir's balls. "Ever left you needing something more?”

"No," Nasir whimpers, heels dragging along the blankets, "You always are perfect. So fucking good."

Agron's grip turns firm, holding Nasir open as he presses his tongue against Nasir's opening and then inside. He can only fit the very tip in, little licks around and around the furled skin to try and make him relax. It seems that from the very first touch, the moaning begins, Nasir tugging insistently on Agron's hair, begging at the top of his voice. 

Outside the door and in the main sitting room, Chadara slips from her bedroom and across the floor. She woke suddenly, an unfamiliar sound echoing along the suite and into her bedroom, pulling her sharply to consciousness. She is poised closest to the master one, ready to respond to any of the king's requests, directly across from Pietros'. She does not know what would be causing the choked off sounds coming from the master bedroom though, easing her bare feet across the thick carpeting. Silently, she draws herself up to the partially open door, peering inside. 

They haven't bothered to draw the curtains, the view on the bed unobstructed from the door. Chadara can see the thick muscles of a man's back, indented with the way he's holding himself up, rippling down to the indents just above his pants. His thighs are stretched tight in leather, rocking forward every time a tan hand digs into hair. Above him, Chadara can see the long arch of Nasir's stomach, his wild hair thrashing as he curses in a sharp language. 

Chadara knows she should not be watching, knows that it is punishable by death to spy on the king. And yet, she can't seem to pry her eyes way from the way Agron holds Nasir down, wet sucking noises filling the room and mingling with Nasir's panted breath. She moves slightly to the left, angling to see better, when a hand wraps around her arm, yanking her from her view. 

"Chadara!" Pietros hisses, brow furrowed, "What are you doing?"

"I'm sorry! I just-" She flounders for a moment, unsure if she should lie or not. "I just never have-"

Pietros glares down at her, eyes narrowed, before a slow grin begins to stretch across his face. He seems to realize what she’s saying even though Chadara stares up at him horrified, frozen in fear of his reaction to her spying. 

"You have never lain with man and are curious." Pietros nods, then, releases Chadara's shoulder. "Well, I suppose it hurts nothing if the door is already open."

Pietros turns them both back to look through the door, nudging it a fraction wider. Agron has moved up now, kissing Nasir fiercely as his fingers move between Nasir's trembling legs, rhythmically pumping back and forth. Nasir smothers his cries in Agron's mouth, hands desperately pawing at his back, fingers turning to claws as Agron twists his wrist. 

"The king must be an excellent lover," Chadara whispers, glancing back at Pietros, "to pull such sounds from his majesty Nasir."

"Agron, yes." Pietros agrees, nodding a little. “He stands above all other men in this regard. I have never heard nor seen Nasir taken to such high rapture before. Nasir only sings praises of their coupling.”

“Are all men as such? Strong and eager to please their lovers?” Chadara turns her head but not her eyes, caught as Nasir’s fingers draw blood on Agron’s shoulder. Agron answers with a growl, arm flexing as he presses his fingers in rougher, deep and building pressure.

“I fear not,” Pietros laughs lightly, a little scorn flowing into his tone. “I have been with many men that confuse their cock for a battering ram. Or those who find pleasure before cock has even been put to purpose.”

“But not the king?” Chadara grins, watching as Agron pulls back with a growl, easing his fingers over Nasir’s throat. He squeezes slowly and Nasir hisses, teeth sharp as they click together.

“No, Agron is well aware of what his cock should be used for. And his hands. And his mouth.” Pietros smirks, watching as Nasir comes undone, nearly wailing as his cock spurts hot and thick against his heavy stomach. “Thankfully, he has also passed the skill to his younger brother.”

“Our little king is blessed,” Chadara watches intensely as Agron drops his head back down, lapping over Nasir’s stomach and down below. “The king seems very concerned with devouring him, and yet King Nasir does not mind it? Being bitten and manhandled that way?”

“I think he craves the control,” Pietros lifts one shoulder, watching Nasir’s beard burned chest rising and falling in quick pants, “Agron does not allow Nasir to linger too long on thought or unnecessary concern. He gives Nasir that release, that submission into pleasure.”

“Interesting,” Chadara draws away, easing the strap of her dress back over her shoulder, “Does Nasir stand as good of a lover? He must if Agron desires him so.”

“As he stated before,” Pietros moves to the table, pouring both of them a hefty portion of wine, “he did not fall pregnant because he could not keep the king’s attention. In fact, there have been very few times that I have seen them together where they have not been touching nor has Agron ever left his time with Nasir unsatisfied. Though, if you are thinking Nasir only seduces him with his body, you are wrong.”

“Infatuated lust?” Chadara grins, sipping her drink. “Of both the body and the mind? I have been told that King Nasir is very well versed in dance and the pleasure of men. King Agron matching his skill as well. Even heavy with child he stands beautiful.” She can hear the royals speaking to one another, another log being thrown onto the fire. 

“Something like that.” Pietros smiles when Nasir’s giggling now carries into the room, Agron’s laughter following. “Though it does not take that much skill to cause a man’s cock to rise. I could teach you that easy enough. A strong breeze can often do the trick. But Nasir-“

“Has given cause for heart to rise as well?” Chadara guesses, her smile pretty and light. 

“I am certain that Nasir will bear King Agron many, many children.” Pietros glances at the door, listens for another moment as Nasir giggles again, Agron’s deep voice answering in a rumble. “But I think earning love, real love, is Nasir’s purest triumph.”

Chadara makes a considering noise, slipping into her room for a moment to grab her shoes. She begins pulling the small, velvet boots on, lacing the front, when her attention is drawn again by the opening of the master bedroom door. Agron stands there, hair wild and eyes glowing, the laces on the front of his tunic left open and ties streaming. Just behind him, Nasir stands – once again dressed with his hair tugged over one shoulder. There is a dark bruise on his neck just below his ear, edged in dark lines of teeth. 

“Your highnesses.” Pietros instantly bows low, glancing at Chadara to make sure she has done the same. From this angle near the floor, she can see the way Nasir’s legs tremble, leaning on Agron for support. 

“The welcoming banquet should be beginning soon. Please make sure my consort is prepared and dressed appropriately.” Agron’s voice is gravel, throat rough from using it to its full capacity. Beside him, Nasir makes a humming noise, nuzzling into his arm. He ruins the effect of the hard and noble royalty by craning his head back a moment later, making a soft noise until Agron leans down and kisses him. 

They do not seem bothered by the fact that the other two are watching them, Agron stroking his fingers through Nasir’s hair, cradling his head as if he is something precious, delicate and sublime. Nasir wraps his arms around Agron’s waist and squeezes them together, softly humming in pleasure when Agron massages his fingers along the back of Nasir’s neck. They pull away slowly, eyelashes fluttering and mouths bruised, sharing a private and intimate look before Agron stoops a little to whisper to him. 

“I must go change,” Agron’s mouth barely moves, brushing Nasir’s with each word, “But I will join you in the main hall shortly.”

“Okay.” Nasir strokes his fingers down Agron’s chest, clearly trying to ease him back towards the bedroom. Agron stands firm though, kissing Nasir deeply one last time before pulling back, nudging his nose against Nasir’s. 

“A few moments, I swear.”

He pulls away then, quickly striding towards the door and out of it. Agron does look over his shoulder though just as the doors swing back, grinning foolishly at his husband. Inside the main suite, Nasir presses his cold fingers to his cheeks and tries to smother down his own look of giddy joy. He startles a moment later when he meets Pietros’ knowing smirk. 

“What?” Nasir clutches his robe a little tighter around himself. 

“And to think you threw a temper tantrum and swore you were never going to even like that ‘brute of a man’ and yet here you stand, blushing and giggling as if it is the first time he has laid hands on you.”

Pietros grins, dodging the pillow that Nasir throws at him a moment later. 

\- - - 

Caesar does not remember much of his mortal life, just figments of a villa far in the mountains of Lucidium, of laughter, and another boy with brown hair as his companion and later his rival. Ilithyia rarely speaks of that time, shying away with questions and memories with her cool grace. Glaber is just the same, waving his hand away from his own childhood, before the vampire full power takes effect. Only Lucretia falls into quiet times, when her eyes grow glassy and she holds her stomach, pain etched in her timeless features.

It is not common knowledge that most vampires are born, and not created. Mortal vampire children are hidden away, secreted into small encampments ran by slaves. They are raised to appropriate ages, before being slowly poisoned with vampire venom. It takes hold in stages, first with the growth of fangs, the hunger for blood, the sensitivity to sunlight, before the mortality fades away and they die to be reborn.

The vampire kingdom proper exists within a network of caves under the country of Lucidium. It has been protected for thousands of years by the nocturnal beings, allowing prey to try and claim the rolling plains and mountains during the day, before coming up in the moonlight to reclaim what is there. It has been this way for so long, that now, no one is sure how big the kingdom actually is. It sinks deep into the earth, beyond caverns of water, crystal, and dirt. 

This is the kingdom that Caesar knows he will inherit when Glaber passes or is finally killed, but is not the kingdom he wants. He knows of the caverns of darkness lurking under the Alptra castle, of the power and alliances the wolves have over the dark creatures that populate their country. Pairing the immortality and viciousness of the vampires with the nocturnal power of the wolves and then, infused with Pythonissan magic, would create an army unlike anything else. Caesar would rise as a king, as a god, with his two lovers at his side. 

"You are lost in thought, cousin," Tiberius calls out to Caesar, leaning back in his chair. They’re lounging on opposite sides of the room, a boy traveling back and forth between them, arm open and vein dripping. "Why not give voice to dark thoughts?"

Caesar glances over at them, too lost in thought to come up with a proper, snarky reply. Tiberius is leaning with his elbows on his knees, peering with knowing eyes over at his cousin. They’re only about a hundred years apart, time a fleeting thing between immortals, but Caesar cannot find a single thing in him that he likes. Across from him, Sabinus – always loyal and the smarter - drags his fingers across his mouth and stares at the chess board. He's four moves away from a checkmate, but Caesar knows that Sabinus will let Tiberius win. 

"Are you dreaming of your future mutt?" Tiberius laughs, short and sharp, and Caesar has to curl his fingers around his wine glass to keep from reaching out. “Father has told me all about your new project.”

"I am strategizing our attack." Caesar laps at the servant boy, trailing the line of blood from his wrist back up to his bicep. “We are about to go to war, cousin. Or had you not realized?”

"Did you know, Sabinus," Tiberius turns his attention to his friend, "Caesar here is about to claim not only a dog to warm his feet, but a whore to fuck them both. Apparently, there is some old prophecy that claims they will have a much feared warrior as a child."

“Is that so?” Sabinus’ fingers linger over the top of his knight, playing with the blackened marble. 

“My question is, the baby he’s already filled with, will it come out a human or a pup?” Tiberius laughs, delighted, “Are you going to let your prophesied warrior piss on the rug?”

Caesar doesn’t bother to respond to the prompting, instead turning his attention back to the letter before him. Ashur has managed to follow the traveling horde into their kingdom, and will infiltrate the royal family after the coronation. He is confident that his brother, Nasir, will welcome him, though he does caution that Nasir is highly guarded now. It seems Agron will go through any lengths to keep his consort safe and out of the public’s reach. How Ashur plans to get close to them, Caesar is not sure, nor does he trust it, but there is little he can do. The Alptra would smell him before he even got into the city walls. 

“I’ve heard things about your new conquests,” Tiberius’ dark eyes gleam in the candlelight, easing the servant down into his lap. He bites greedy at the boy’s already gaping wound, grinning when the boy flinches, turning his head away. It won’t kill him, but it hurts.

“We are strengthening the army to take the Alptra out, and with their army and our own, we will gain more power. We no longer will have to cow and hide from them, but instead use them to take control of the world,” Caesar rolls his eyes, watching the slave boy’s eyes getting damp, his blood thickening. 

“They say that the Alptra king is huge, a god among his men. He was trained from the womb to be a killer,” Tiberius’ eyes alight with the story, coiling the words carefully. “A thousand vampires stood against his troops and he slaughtered them all, even when his sword was knocked from hand. He tore through throats open with his teeth.”

“I know of Agron,” Caesar sighs, running fingers through his hair. He does not give anything away, appearing cool and mildly interested at best. Tiberius has never payed enough attention to the dealings of the royal family to recognize names, faces, the dates in which Caesar came into his princedom and another little prince was born – a prince so long ago thought of being the prophesized one. 

“And his consort?” Tiberius goads, glancing at Sabinus to make sure he has his full captive audience. “A child sized witch that used to fuck for money? That’s who your giant conquest is for?”

“Nasir is the last son of the lost land of Pythonissa. He is the embodiment of one of their lost gods, coming directly from their king and a priestess.” Caesar rolls his shoulders back, gearing up for the argument he’s sure Tiberius is about to unleash. “Inside of him grows our death unless we can claim it for our own.”

Silence falls over the room, the slave slowly crumpling to the floor. He’s stopped bleeding, forgotten in the midst of the conversation, and for that he may just live. Caesar doesn’t bother to check. He’s more concerned about the letter in his hands, Ashur left with the direst of tasks, of the secret hidden on him that may be their triumph or their undoing.

“And how do you plan on getting the child and the parents to agree?” Sabinus raises his head, face calculating. Already, he’s moved in for the checkmate, only hesitating to see what Tiberius will play.

“By finding the weak spot.” Caesar’s grin is half manic, half sane, fangs sharp. “Anyone is corruptible. You just have to find the one thing they are willing to do anything for.”

\- - -

Laughter and loud conversation fill the Grand Hall of Galena, rising to shake even the crystal stars hanging from the three massive chandeliers that light the room. Along the walls, tapestries depict the greatest battles of the Alptra kings, fabric and thread weaving together the fall and rise of the kingdom. Large ornate candelabras extend from the oak buttresses between, their lights flickering to the illuminate the room. They are crafted just so that they catch on every crystal and stone on the ceiling, this room too having a night sky painted upon it. 

There are servants dressed in silver wandering amongst the crowd, their sashes a mixture of blue and red, platters heavy with sliced fruit and still steaming meats. They work to replenish the tables as well, two long ones on both the right and left side of the room with low stools and benches around. In the far back of the room on a platform, the royal family dine at their own table, lined up on one side to face the dancing crowd in the center. 

Agron sits on the left side of the table, his chair high backed and cushioned, two snarling wolves’ heads make up the arms of it. To his direct right, Nasir sits in a chair of similar design. Following Agron's left, Duro sits, then Tove, and then Spartacus. Crixus sits at the far end, Yasmina on his lap. They make up the most direct lineage on Agron's side of the family. To Nasir's right, Pietros claims the spot closest to him as head of his household and closest in blood relation. Next is Saxa, her wild hair tamed back into a messy plait. At the very end, Naevia takes up the last space, Mira lingering just behind her - on guard tonight. 

Tove has just finished telling some story, a horrible tale with something to do with finding a bull on a hunting trip and a farmer's boy, but it sends the table into an uproar of laughter, Duro pounding his fists on the table. Behind him, Auctus presses his hand to Duro's shoulder, hidden from plain sight. Agron has not given the formal command yet, waiting until tomorrow once the coronation has fully settled. 

Their crowns are the same that were forged during the summer months, silver and gold, but Nasir's is covered in tiny diamonds and pearls - a landscape of the night sky. Tiny teardrops hang down from the metal, shimmering in his hair. Laeta had finally relented and let him wear it half down, the edges of it laying against his waist. He's been dressed in something modest, a high necked tunic of white and silver, embroidered in swirls of crimson and blue. How he managed to slip on the tight velvet pants is a mystery, the charcoal fabric clinging to him until it disappears into black boots. Agron can’t seem to keep from stroking his hands over Nasir’s thigh every few minutes, dizzying circles that make the smaller man shiver. 

Laeta had seen to Agron as well, fitting him in white and gray as well, his shirt left loose around him, though it stretches impossibly over his shoulders. The pants are of the same leather as it seems is fitting of Alptra men during winter, etched in thick black cords and silver. From around his neck, a thick chain extends with an emblem of a wolf's paw. 

"Cousin!" Duro shouts, waving his cup at a nearby servant, "You must regal us with tales of hunting the trolls. I do not think Nasir has heard of yours and Agron's fortune."

"Ha!" From down the table, Saxa throws a grape at her younger brother. "Do not take credit for that! Had I not been there, you both would have been fucking dead."

“We would have been fine had you not provoked it!” Tove snaps back, picking up his crust and chucking it down the table. It lands near Pietros’ plate, nearly knocking over his cup of wine. 

Nasir loses interest as the two siblings begin to bicker, leaning out of the way of stray grapes and thrown food to press his cheek against Agron's shoulder. He can feel the warmth of his husband through the fabric, burning and bright, and nuzzles against it. This close, Nasir can smell him, the bergamot and cedar, a sharp cut of mint through it. Dragging his nose up higher, Nasir nuzzles against his throat for a moment, inhaling as much as he can.

"You drink heavily tonight, my king," Nasir murmurs, watching as Diona fills Agron's cup again, her eyes straying for a moment down the table to Tove and then back to the floor. Agron nearly drains it when she hands it back, throat flexing against Nasir’s cheek. 

"I am in the mood for celebrating," Agron's face is rosy, the contrast making his green eyes seem even brighter. He presses his mouth against Nasir's forehead, a little too wet to be sober. “We have a lot to fucking celebrate now.”

"If only I could join you," Nasir takes a swallow of his water, grimacing when it's not what he wishes it to be. He knows it will only be a little over a month now until the baby is due to be born, but this pregnancy seems to have weighed on him. 

"Let me share in my most plentiful bounty then." Agron takes a large swallow of wine, pressing his mouth down to Nasir's as soon as the cup as left his mouth. It is nothing more than a trickle shared between them, the sharp burst of ripened wine and sugar, but Nasir laps it from Agron's lip, sucking the skin gently. When he pulls away, Agron's eyes are wild. 

"Sometimes," Nasir confesses in whispers, stroking Agron's jaw, "when you look at me like that, I fear that I may catch flame."

"It would not be the first time I made you do so," Agron's grin is dirty, an easy ploy, but he shakes his head a moment later, sobering just slightly. "You are happy though?"

"Happy?" Nasir laughs, unsure of what he means. He can’t seem to stop from stroking the backs of his fingers along the stubble on Agron’s jaw. 

"Being here, being consort. The proper coronation is over and there is no one in this world that can ever doubt your claim now."

Agron says it earnestly, as if he wants to believe it just as much as he wants Nasir to. It’s clear that he is on the other side of sober now, a little too flushed and slurring just enough for Nasir to know by the end of the evening, Agron will be drunk. It’s interesting to watch him slowly lose control, hands still incessantly stroking the soft velvet on Nasir’s thigh. 

"With you by my side, I will always be happy.” Nasir leans up, kissing Agron’s cheek. “The most happy." 

He settles back down, having to lean across both of the arms on their chairs to press against Agron’s side. He wishes for a moment that they were on a bench, a settee even, where Nasir could hook his legs across Agron’s lap and curl closer. He wants to run his hands over Agron’s shoulders, press his face against the solid planes of his husband’s chest, inhale until Nasir cannot breathe anything but Agron’s scent. Nasir does not know where the need comes from, only that he cannot stands a moment longer of them being separated by mere inches.  
“I love you,” Nasir murmurs, rubbing his cheek against the ball of Agron’s shoulder. He nearly purrs the next moment when Agron reaches up, massaging his fingers behind Nasir’s ear. 

“I love you too.” Agron eases his head up, grinning back when a warm and fond smile eases across Nasir’s face, feeling himself blush. Dimples denting his cheeks, Agron glances delighted at his hand as the baby kicks against it.

Nasir leans back in, lets Agron's mouth slot against this again, perfect and formed for one another. He does not want to put on a show for the other nobility, a court full of strangers, and yet he can't seem to mind when Agron's fingers curl in his hair. After all they've been through, the scandal of the royal couple being insatiable seems very small. 

They're interrupted a moment later as suddenly Duro looms close to them, his breath hot on both of their cheeks. Reaching up, Duro has to grip either side of their chairs, swaying back and forth on his heels. It is clear he is drunk, face red across the nose and mouth loose, and when Agron pulls away from Nasir, he nearly leans forward towards his brother, only stopped when Agron puts a hand firmly on his chest. He looks confused for just a moment, seeming to come back to himself under Agron’s intense glare.

"Duro." Agron mutters in warning, seeming to recognize the look on his brother's face. 

"Apologies." Duro shakes his head a little, sobering enough to realize the situation. "I only interrupted to ask if I could have the pleasure of stealing your consort."

Agron glances at Nasir, eyes narrowing. "For what?"

"Well," Duro stands, making a grand gesture with his hands and bowing. Behind him, Diona and Chadara have to dodge his limbs as they approach with more food. "King Nasir has been so gracious to entertain us before with his beautiful dancing. I thought it only fair if Tove and I returned the favor. I would like to formally request a dance."

"You want me to dance?" Nasir laughs, delighted as Agron's face scrunches in concern. "I do not think-"

"Not your Pythonissan dancing," Duro swings his hips a little, a poor attempt at Nasir’s signature figure eight. "Tove and I would like to teach you an Alptra dance. With the king's permission, of course."

Nasir glances over at Agron, mouth open in a grin. He's waiting to see his husband object, come up with some excuse to keep him near and at the table, but Agron seems to be fighting with himself. He turns towards the spinning crowd, to Nasir, to Duro, and then back at least a half dozen times before settling. Finally, he takes a deep breath, fondly touching Nasir's chin with his fingertips. 

"Would that please you?"

"Very much," Nasir laughs, open and bright. He feels giddy, high from the excitement of the day and the laughter around him. It is an odd feeling, having not felt it in so long. He turns in Agron’s embrace, looking up at the prince. "Are you most skilled in dancing, Duro? I do not remember it being in your repertoire."

"Alptra dancing is very complex, but deals mostly with stepping, spinning, and clapping. I am sure after time you may get the hang of it." Duro is teasing as he reaches out to Nasir, taking his hand and helping to pull him from his throne. Behind him, Tove is already lingering, face pink and hand cupping around the back of his neck. He nearly topples himself over when he bows at Nasir.

They make it down from the platform, edging towards the spinning bodies, when Agron calls out to his brother, holding up a hand. People turn to look, staring at the new king in wonder, curious as to what caused him to callout. 

"Nothing complicated and no lifts." 

"I know, I know. How am I supposed to lift him anyways? He's huge now!" Duro waves a hand at Nasir’s stomach.

"Hey!" Nasir smacks Duro's arm in retaliation, glaring at him, "Your future niece or nephew is to blame for that!"

"I know and I love it already." Duro takes Nasir's hand, spinning him in a circle. Even heavily pregnant, Nasir eases up on his toes, moving in a graceful arch. Tove seems impressed, clapping before attempting the same move, having to push off twice before he makes it all the way around.

Agron lets them have their fun, settling more comfortably in his chair to watch as Duro and Tove teach Nasir the basic mechanics of this particular dance. It's a lot of spinning and joining hands, Nasir traveling between Tove and Duro in a figure eight before clapping and reversing the move. Every few moments, Nasir will throw his head back and laugh, goaded on by whatever narrative Tove and Duro have going on between them. The nobility already in the dance eye the consort with nothing but fascination and adoration, grinning when Nasir manages to keep better time than both Tove and Duro. 

"It is a good day, isn't it?" Pietros and Spartacus have moved down to the empty seats, crowding in Agron from either side. Leaning across the table, Pietros tugs the bowl of honey cakes towards himself, selecting one carefully and bringing it to his mouth. Agron is a little thrown, drunkenly of course, by how familiar the move is. It's particularly graceful and Agron swears he's seen Nasir move in the exact same way only moments before.

"It is a wonderful day, majesty." Spartacus clicks his glass with Agron's offered one, turning back to the crowd. "Your subjects feel so too. It has been a long time since this hall rang with laughter."

"Tomorrow, I will name my council. Remove those who only hold Gerulf in esteem, and turn sights to waiting on the birth of my child. I am tired of this political foreplay, and would see fucking end to dark deals and loyalties forged in shadows.” Agron grins a little when in the crowd, Nasir does a complicated step, rolling his body teasingly, and Duro doesn’t follow – looking coltish and large. It brings a peal of laughter from the smaller man, Nasir clapping in mocking before repeating the action again. 

“Bold words and bold actions,” Spartacus nods, plucking a small fig from the bowl before him. He uses a small knife to cut it, glancing up from the red inside to look at the king. “It is not something anyone will expect from Gerulf’s son, nor the son of their ally.”

Agron huffs in annoyance, turning to look at his best friend. “You think I am making enemies?”  
“I think that doing such is inevitable,” Spartacus returns the look, eyes wise and considering. The man that sits before him is not the same boy that used to stare at Gerulf with fire and loyalty in his gaze. Agron is his own person now, a king in every sense, but there are many who will not see him that way. “I think it wise if we discussed such elsewhere, when promises and men are held.”

“I agree,” Pietros cuts in, motioning towards the captain of the guard. “I am told that once the baby is born, you plan to see Nasir and I trained in the sword?” Pietros eyes are narrowed, staring at Agron. 

“If he wishes it,” Agron shrugs a shoulder, unfazed by Pietros’ questions. “Your daggers are useful in self-defense, but are not useful on the battlefield unless you aim to fight like Saxa.”

Down the table, the woman grins a snarl at them. She uses two knives close to her to make quick stabbing motions into the steak on her plate.

“You turn us into warriors?” Pietros looks surprised by the news.

“We would see you both learn to fight in case of any sort of emergency,” Spartacus speaks up, his smile soothing. “Would you not like to learn how to best a man without being close enough to feel his breath on your face?”

Pietros’ eyes grow wide, an unfamiliar gleam to them, before nodding solemnly. “I pray the prince or princess arrives soon.”

“As do we all.” Agron glances back out at the moving crowd, Nasir is moving in front of Duro, one hand clasped over his shoulder and in Duro’s large one. The prince spins the king and Nasir bows after, glancing up with a grin at the royal table, coy and sharp. “It is a mystery.”

Pietros hums his agreement, lounging back against the chair again. “Let us move onto more mysteries that seen to have no answer. When are you and Mira finally going to get married? You have been planning such since I arrived, nearly eight months ago.”

“Soon.” Spartacus’ eyes twinkle with mischief, drawing away to go speak to Crixus. Pietros makes a noise of frustration before turning his head up to Auctus, smiling at the guard. Auctus shifts to the right, reaches down with the barest brushes over the soft slope of Pietros’ neck. It’s a hidden move, a secret caress that only Pietros and Agron are privy too. 

“You are halfway to drunk,” Auctus teases with barely moving his lips, “How does the king feel about this? The head of his household terrorizing his husband and captain of the guard?”

“Terrorizing? I do no such thing! I only forge friendships and quiet conversation. Besides, King Nasir told me to drink in his stead,” Pietros grins, eyes glassy, “He is most annoyed that he cannot.”

“He is impatient,” Agron butts in, muttering into his wine glass. 

“He misses his feet.” Pietros bursts into laughter as soon as he says it, tilting his head back against the cushions of the chair. Agron glances at him, wrinkling his nose. He knows Pietros is only teasing, but something hot and rough twists in his stomach. He’s about to comment when something else draws his attention. 

Above the sweeping notes of the lutes and drums in the corner, the rhythmic clapping and steps of the crowd, the laughter of the nobility, a sound begins to grow – gaining momentum. It doesn’t exactly sound human, like the dying scream of something – some beast that claws at Agron’s memory but he is too thick in wine to recall. A moment later, the sound pierces the air clearer as at the far end of the room, the double doors suddenly bang open, hitting the wall hard enough to chip the stone. 

The crowd instantly reacts, men and women crying out as something forces its way up the hall. Half of the nobles run to the sides, back peddling out of the way. Guards pour in behind the creature, shouting as they follow it with swords drawn. Closest to the royal table, Tove and Duro step in front of Nasir, easing the small king behind them and to the side, allowing Agron a clear shot of who approaches.

It looks like a man, dressed in dark rags with a thick beard on his face. It is unclear who or what it actually is as the creature is covered in blood, a gaping wound on his chest oozing red and black. He is not the one that is screaming, though his mouth is open, mouth bruised and trembling. He is something else, his fingers curved into claws as he rushes forward, dodging around those who stand in his path and aiming for the royal table. 

Agron’s hand feels like a brand when it eases behind him, wrapping his fingers just under the hem of Pietros’ tunic and around his hip. The bone fits in the palm of his hand as he grips him, pushing the other man back. It is an even exchange, ignoring the way Pietros tenses and gasps as Auctus presses the hilt of Agron’s sword into his free hand. It clear what Agron is making room to jump the table if need be. 

The guards manage to catch the man a few feet from where Tove and Duro have retreated, forcing the creature onto his knees. He slumps forward, pressing red handprints to the shining silver floor and smearing it. Agron can hear Nasir’s gasp all the way from behind the table, his nails digging into Duro’s bicep when he leans around him to see. The guards are yelling in Alptraum, wrestling with the creature, trying to get a grip on his wet skin. They hit him hard across his face, crimson splattering, and it seems to still him. Barca steps forward then from the fray slamming his fist to his chest in greeting as he bows low.

“Deepest apologies, majesty. We found this creature trying to sneak into the palace through the consort’s tower. He eluded us until he reached the main hall.”

“An assassin?” Duro bites out, voice thick with a snarl. Behind him, Nasir peers out between the two cousins, eyes wide. “Come here to kill the king on the day of his coronation?”

“He has no weapon,” Barca interrupts, but his expression is solemn, “but he nearly acquired a sword. He seemed intent to find the consort.”

“Take him to the dungeons. Get the truth out of him. I want to know who his master is,” Agron snarls, matching his brother’s rage. The urge to shift claws at his throat, but Agron manages to swallow it back, only soothed by the fact that Nasir stands here, whole and protected.

They yank the man to his feet, beginning to turn him away, when he suddenly raises his head, spitting out a rapid fire of words. Agron does not know what he says, but the reaction is instantaneous. Behind him, Pietros makes a high noise of distress but is the sound that draws Agron’s attention, it is Nasir - shoving around Tove’s arm to approach the small group of guards. 

The man says it again, slower but just as desperate, and to everyone’s surprise, Nasir answers him. His Pythonissan is sharp, accented, and Agron flinches from hearing it – cursing himself for not learning the language sooner. Someone in the crowd gasps, followed quickly by murmuring, as Nasir draws quickly up to the man, hand out stretched. They stare at each other for a moment, the time stretching, before Nasir suddenly cries out and wraps his arms around the man's neck - hugging him tightly. The two men embrace, the man’s soiled hands smearing along Nasir’s waist, his face tucked to Nasir’s neck.

“No!” Pietros gasps in Alptraum, moving forward half a step, halted by Auctus’ grip on him. “Stop him!”

“What is the meaning of this?” 

Tove says the words that Agron cannot, but when Nasir turns, he does not look towards the prince but Agron. The stain down the front of his pearl colored tunic is nearly brown, the blood oozing and ruining the embroidery, but it is the sliver of crimson on Nasir’s cheek that hits the king, twisting his gut. One arm stays around the man’s neck as Nasir stares up at Agron, imploringly. Agron can tell he wishes to speak to him through their minds, but his magic won’t let him. Instead, Nasir swallows thickly before saying in clear Alptraum. 

“He is my brother.”

\- - - 

When Duro was younger, maybe eight or nine, Agron was chosen to defend Gerulf's honor and the royal house in a tournament - a trial of swordsmanship, hunting, and riding. Duro remembers sitting beside Isolde on the large wooden platform, the sun beating down upon them, and watching Agron, barely twelve at the time, as he stood amongst the best fighters of that time. Sedullus was part of the games, as were many other grown men, but Agron had sat astride his horse and did not seem afraid when he battled them. He struck down men after men, woman warriors with their hair braided tight, creatures captured from the darkest corners of Alptra. 

The last challenge was a test of skills - endurance, sword play, strategy. Everything a future king would need to be successful on the throne. Agron had entered the arena with nothing more than a long sword and shield to face one of the Alptraum's most feared creatures - a manticore. Its long body was that of a lion, the tail a sharpened stinger of a scorpion, but its face was that of a man's, eerie blue eyes gleaming out between its auburn hair. It thirsted after human flesh, its razor sharp teeth used to yank arms off men and devouring them. 

Agron had stood against the beast, fought against its speed, its stingers that shot from its tail. It seemed to have lasted hours, days even, before Spartacus had called down to him. Agron followed his friend's suggestion, using the wall as a backboard and managing to throw his sword directly into the creature’s throat. The metal shook from the force, pinning the manticore's body against the opposite wall. Duro remembers the crowd's screams, the flowers thrown at Agron for his victory, his mother's sweaty hand holding Duro's when Agron was presented before the king. 

Throughout the challenge, Agron had never looked scared, never second guessed himself, but calculated and triumphed over it all. Now, Duro can see the same focused look on Agron's face, standing beside the fireplace, one arm braced on the mantle as he stares at the door. Across the hall, Nasir's suite is shut tightly, two full armored guards standing just outside. 

They had moved Nasir's brother into the suite to treat his wounds, Nasir allowing the medics inside before shutting the door against anyone else. He had barely spared a glance for anyone, pressing a chaste kiss to Agron’s jaw before dashing off, muttering in Pythonissan.

Surprisingly though, Pietros had not followed the horde into the room. Instead, he sits curled up against Duro's side, having pulled one of Duro's arms around his shoulders and stayed. Auctus moves behind them, brushing his fingers along the back of Pietros' neck every few minutes. Pietros seems transfixed by the thick golden cuff around his wrist, twin snakes eating each other's tails, their eyes glinting emeralds. 

Nearby, Mira and Tove sit in opposite high backed chairs. Mira has been working on the same thumbnail for what seems like eternities, her knees brought to her chest. Across the back of her chair, her bow rests nearby. Tove has taken to playing with a small dagger, spinning it in its scabbard over and over again. 

"Your majesty." From the doorway, Spartacus steps into the room, bowing low. He looks strained, expression tight as he levels one hand against his sword. 

"I want to know how someone snuck into this castle without any guard noticing until he exited my husband's rooms." Agron's voice does not tremble, though it is clear that he is holding back as his fisted hands shake. He cannot hide the way his canines bite into his bottom lip. "I want every fucking guard on duty to answer me why men are scaling out walls without detection."

"Yes, your highness. Crixus and Barca are already interviewing all that were on this side of the castle." Spartacus claps his fist to his shoulder. 

“I want no one to rest until I have my fucking answers.” Agron snarls, the edge of his voice beginning to threaten the wolf that rears its head. “I expect double numbers in every hallway from here till the fucking throne room.”

“It will be done.” Spartacus nods, again slapping his right fist to his left shoulder. “Yes, your highness.”

Agron stands for a moment longer before picking up an ornate vase near his elbow and throwing it against the far wall. Instantly, the glass shatters in a spray of rainbow colors, scattering all over the thick rug. Beside Duro, Pietros startles so hard he nearly falls from his perch. 

"I specifically said we needed to double our men before we even fucking left to come here!" Agron shouts, turning his gaze back to Spartacus. "I fucking ordered it done! How do we expect to rule this kingdom if we are not prepared? We work as one or we fall to fucking ruin."

"Apologies. We do not know how he even got into the city yet, sire. The gate was locked at sundown. Everyone who came in was checked through." Spartacus does not falter, standing stoic and calm. He has seen Agron’s rage before, has felt him lose control.

"All it takes is one guard fucking distracted!" Agron stomps forward, crowding into Spartacus' space, "One guard looking the other way and my family lays murdered. Do you think Nasir could defend himself in the state that he is in? My child?"

Spartacus' voice dips, low enough that Duro has to strain to even hear the words. "I think that he never went through the gate today. Nor do I think he scaled the wall outside of the castle. He came for Nasir when he knew others would be watching, when he knew that his presence couldn't be ignored."

Agron startles under Spartacus' gaze, his eyes slowly widening as he realizes what Spartacus is implying. Lowering his own voice, Agron leans closer to the captain of his guard. 

"You think he was already inside? That he made a spectacle to protect himself?"

"Everyone saw Nasir welcome dearest brother in his arms, claimed him before every nobility we have." Spartacus grimaces. "His every move will now be watched and protected."

"He is his brother though." Agron wrinkles his nose, mouth twisting in distaste. “Why would he-“

"He is a monster."

Pietros stares at the fire, expression blank and unseeing, but his words are clear enough that the men across the room from him hear him. Instantly, Agron moves to the door and snaps them shut, blocking the guards from hearing. He moves over then, crouching between Mira's chair and Tove's, reaching out to place his hand on Pietros' knee. 

"Speak."

Pietros' gaze flickers over to Agron, pained and twisting. It is clear that he does not wish to give voice to what he knows, what he has endured, but when he looks over at Agron, he seems to waiver. There is a debate there, sharing a silent conversation, but it is not Agron’s crown or his status that Pietros bows to, it is the knowledge that they both love Nasir. Pietros presses his shoulder firmer into Duro's side, body trembling as he begins. 

"Ashur, first born, stolen by vampires. But his heart was dark long before they ever came for him."

Duro gently kisses the side of Pietros' head, stroking his curls. He seems terrified of the words he has yet to speak, avoiding looking at Agron all together as he goes back to staring at the fire. The words he speaks next are soft, as if he's remembering lessons given to him long ago. 

"The sons of Kallistos, king of the lost land of Pythonissa, are all rare in their own making. Nasir, the jewel, given eternal power. Jem and Mika were born with a ribbon connecting their necks, scarlet and knotted. Kalmar, who was stolen by faes because he grew a tree in their territory. Lido was sought and found by seers of the North, married to their high master. And then, Ashur, who was born out of malice and spite.

It is not the Pythonissan way to marry for love. Our men are the dancers, the soothsayers, the magicians that go and make the money and trade themselves for our livelihood. The women are our warriors, our guards, and our thieves. It is against Pythonissan tradition for a woman to lie with a man and get pregnant by a man that is not a Pythonissan. It taints the blood. It spoils it."

Pietros' bitter smile doesn't reach his eyes as he turns back to the royals. It seems the words are being forced out of him, prying from the very dark chests inside of his mind. Duro strokes his fingers more firmly through his hair, pressing gentle kisses to his temple. 

"Kallistos was king because his father was king and he was the chosen, oldest son. He laid with our women to produce the same line. There is no reason to marry as any woman may choose any man to give a son. Thus, Ashur, Lido, and Kalmar's mothers were women who Kallistos chose and impregnated. Once a son is born, they are separated from their mothers and trained in the way of the men."

"But your mother raised you, didn't she? She was with you when-" Agron pauses tactfully, not finishing the rest of his thought.

"In Muka, the Pythonissans are allowed to keep a temple. It sits high on a mountain, only prohibited due to the nature of both our people worshiping the same gods. We pilgrimage there every ten years to offer thanks and sacrifice to Sator and the other gods. 

When Kallistos went, he met a young priestess named Fatin and begged the gods to allow him to lay with her. It is not something that is usually practiced but Kallistos is king and he offered a large sacrifice to the gods to have her."

Duro pauses his ministrations in Pietros' hair just for a moment, "Nasir's mother?"

"And Mika and Jem's." Pietros nods. "They did not just lay together once, as is the way, but instead, Fatin told Kallistos she would give him three sons if they married and she was allowed to leave her temple and rule beside him as queen. She claimed that the gods had shown her destiny to bring something important into this world."

The room falls into silence, each person contemplating the tale. Agron knows that Fatin did marry Kallistos, she must have to be able to give birth to the three youngest sons, and yet it makes no sense. Nasir's memories, those he shared with Agron, are all pleasant of his mother and father's marriage. If it were forbidden, surely someone must have gotten upset. 

"It was a new time, new future for our people, the unity that Kallistos and Fatin offered. We were a fractured people slowly beginning to unite. Fatin brought her faith, her healing magic, her gods and reminded us that we were not forgotten. We were whole."

Pietros raises a hand to his cheeks, brushing a stray tear away. He glances over at Agron, not needing to say what happens next. Agron already knows. Nasir had told him, quietly whispered into Agron's chest, of his mother's murder. Of her protecting him and telling him who he was, hiding it from him to protect him. Nasir had whispered the words around his tears, clinging to Agron with desperate fingers. 

"I don't understand. If people were happy about the unity, then what does this have to do with Ashur?"

"Our people were happy. Everyone loved Fatin and the twins, and when Nasir was born with the tattoo of a god upon his back, it was clear we were blessed. But Kallistos did not want to keep the order of his heirs. He wanted to place the twins as inheriting the tribe when he passes on. He wanted to honor the lineage of that his queen gave him. That stripped Ashur down to nothing."

Pietros' tone takes on a hard edge, brow furrowing. He sits up straighter then, lip curling into a vicious snarl.

"He could never get to the twins. They were always too caught up in one another to care what games Ashur was trying to play. He was cruel to Nasir and I. He would punish us for using our power, for healing the birds that he would shoot down, for always being the best at dancing and magic. He locked Nasir in a trunk once and tried to sell him to a merchant in Khan. 

I do not think Nasir remembers any of this, or at least, he has put it from his mind. Fatin’s death was the worst for him, and coupled with Ashur’s hatred, I think that he found a way to forget what he never wanted to remember.

When we serviced the vampires, Kallistos told the group that Ashur was stolen from us, but it's a lie. I remember. He was nineteen and he went out to dance and he ran away. I remember him sneaking into Nasir's and my wagon before he left. He kissed Nasir's forehead and promised to come back for him. I know he did. No one believes me but I know what I saw. He ran away to them. He wanted to leave and Kallistos let him go!

You have no idea how cruel he can be, how unforgiving, how sadistic when it comes to getting what he wants. He is a monster, a fucking monster.”

It seems the words are too much as Pietros withers back, pressing his face against Duro's chest and shuddering. Around his wrist, a dark vine has twisted itself over and over, braiding a thick bracelet there. Duro wraps his arms around him, rocks him until Pietros calms down enough to hiccupped sobs. 

Agron stands and wanders back to the mantle, leaning his forearm against the carved stone. It is a heavy tale, the history of the Pythonissan people. He had already known how close the twins and Nasir were, how they were the chosen three, and yet Agron had not realized what it would mean to the other three brothers. He cannot imagine what it must have felt like to be nineteen and promised kingship only to have it taken away by your child aged brothers. The wound must have cut deep.

It still does not answer the question of why Ashur is here now. Why suddenly appear when Nasir is at his highest? Standing second in command over a huge country, thick with a child that is prophesized to be the ender of all darkness? He barely has anything to do with the Pythonissa now, having come from there but no longer a key part of their people. If Ashur has suddenly appeared from the vampire’s hold, he must be after something.

"What does he want though? Why is he here? If he hated Nasir so much, why suddenly come visit? Shouldn’t he be after the twins?" Mira speaks the words right out of Agron's mind, leaning forward in her chair. Her braided hair is half undone, the brown strands stuck to her face with sweat. They all look worse for wear, the banquet ending abruptly and with a large blood stain on the floor. 

"He wants something." Spartacus replies, his grip on the back of his fiancé’s chair creaking dangerously. "He wants something that only Nasir can give him."

"From now on, I want-“ Agron begins to say, cut off as the door slowly creaks open, Nasir slipping inside. 

He’s still wearing the tunic from before, the ornate beading of stars and moons ruined by the large crimson stain down the front. It looks barbaric across the thick stretch of his waist curling up to his side. The blood that once was on his face is gone now, but Nasir has bitten his bottom lip raw. His braid has unraveled, the curling strands sticking to his sweat neck, turning dark eyes around the room. The exhaustion has drawn bruises under his eyes. 

Nasir barely shuts the door before Agron reaches for him, pulling Nasir into his arms. Holding him tight, Agron presses gentle kisses to the curls on Nasir's temple, stroking his spine. He can feel the tension in his husband, the way he trembles on his feet, the desperate fingers that dig into Agron's waist and hold them together. All the horror they have endured just for more to be given to them.

"Are you okay?" Agron knows the stupidity of the question, but he can't seem to stop it from slipping out. Thankfully, he murmurs the words into Nasir's ear and the others do not hear them. 

"I am tired," Nasir tilts his head back, rests his chin in the center of Agron's chest. "I am tired and I am sore but I am alright."

He keeps one arm around his husband as he faces his friends, studying each of them. Mira is staring sympathetically at the pair, resting her chin on her knee. Beside her, Tove has tossed aside the dagger in exchange for gripping the sides of his chair. On the couch, Duro watches the pair with dark eyes, holding Pietros nearly in his lap. The smaller man is staring at his curled hands, keeping them in his lap. 

"Ashur is resting now." Nasir begins, curling his fingers around Agron's hip. "Melitta and Völva managed to stop the bleeding. The wound on his chest isn't too deep, just ugly."

"Gods be praised." Mira tries, smiling as much as she can. 

"Is he staying in your suite?" Duro's knuckles are caressing down Pietros' neck. 

"Yes, of course." Nasir's brow furrows. "I need to be close in case he needs anything and I want him nearby. I do not think he will wake tonight or even tomorrow, he is very tired. Perhaps in a day, we will talk and I will find out what happened. He has much changed since I last laid eyes upon him"

"What happened to make him run away from your people?" Tove asks, flinching when Pietros makes a distressed sound. 

"Ashur didn't run away. He was kidnapped, the first of us to be taken from our people." Nasir frowns deeply, glancing up at Agron. He seems to have begun to understand that the tension in the room is not out of concern but instead hostility. "It does not matter what has happened or who had him. All that matters is that he is my blood and I am his. How could I turn him away?"

"We are very happy that your brother has returned," Spartacus nods, encouragingly, "but do you think that wise to allow him to rest in your suite? What if he needs more aid? Or perhaps his demands are not able to be met? There is protocol to follow when requesting something of the kings."

"His demands? Protocol?" Nasir hisses the words, leaning forward a little to address Spartacus head on. "He is my brother, not some foreign diplomat."

"I only meant-" Spartacus tries to soothe, but Nasir does not let him continue. 

"Only meant that you do not trust him? That you think he is some creature because of those who took him?" Nasir snarls the words, bristling when Agron strokes a soothing hand down his back. “Ashur is not some monster. He is Pythonissan royal blood.”

Suddenly, Pietros is standing, tossing the blanket that was once across his lap onto the floor. He glares at Nasir, mouth in a thin line as he shakes his head. It is clear the two are about to fight, Pietros hissing something in Pythonissan, sounding betrayed, that has Nasir retorting sharp and vicious. They spat back and forth, slowly raising to yelling, before suddenly Pietros switches back to the common tongue. 

"You are a blind fool if you do not remember who that man is!"

"That man is my brother." Nasir spits the words as if he’s cursing.

“I am your brother!” Pietros’ whole body is shaking, fists curled so tightly at his sides that his knuckles bulge. 

“Ashur and I share blood.” 

The room stills at the words; Mira places her hands over his mouth to swallow back her gasp. Beside Nasir, Agron’s fingers flex on his hip, mouth pressed into a disappointed line. He doesn’t turn to look at his husband, instead keeping his gaze on Pietros, tan face blank as if stricken. Horrified, Nasir freezes at his own words, realizing how wrong they sound, before shaking his head. 

“You know that I love you both as my brothers, and it is for that I can’t turn him away.” Nasir sighs deeply, as if pulling the words from his very core. “He’s staying.”

Pietros stares at Nasir for a moment, pressing his mouth into a thin line and crossing his arms over his chest. He’s angry enough that he’s shaking, the tension between the two friends seeming to stretch and smother any of the joy and laughter that may have survived from earlier. Finally, Pietros unfurls himself long enough to deeply bow, his expression mocking and brittle as he takes Duro’s hand, tugging him towards the door. Agron has to guide Nasir out of the way for them to exit, waving off Duro’s apologetic look. 

“It has been a long day,” Spartacus speaks up, avoiding looking at the royal couple. “Perhaps it is time we retire?”

“I agree.” Agron nods, kissing the side of Nasir’s head. “To bed?”

“I do not know if that-“ Nasir pauses for a moment, gaze lingering on the doorway. “Do you think that proper?”

“To sleep?” Agron asks confused, pulling back to look down at Nasir. 

“Ashur, he-“ Nasir pauses again. “He does not know you. I do not want him to feel uncomfortable-“

“Uncomfortable?” Scoffing, Agron glances over at Tove and Spartacus, looking for reassurance that this is as ridiculous to them as it sounds to him. 

“It’s only that the last time Ashur saw me, I was barely ten years old. I don’t know if seeing me _with someone_ will sit well with him.” Nasir worries his bottom lip between his teeth, clearly distracted by everything that has transpired and not wanting to look up at Agron. 

Agron, for his part, doesn’t give Nasir the chance to try and ease through this. He cups Nasir’s jaw and tilts his head up, brow wrinkled as he meets the other man’s hesitant gaze. “Nasir, we are married. I’m not _someone_. I’m your husband. Surely Ashur knows you are not a child anymore.”

“I know but-“ Nasir inhales slowly, sighing. 

“Do you want me to go to my rooms?” Agron tries not to let the frustration show. “I can sleep there instead. They are across the castle from here, but I will if that is what you want.”

Nasir seems to think about it for a moment, glancing first at Agron and then over his shoulder where Tove and Spartacus stand, both of them respectfully staring at the ground as the royals discuss in front of them. 

“Nasir?” Agron asks, tapping his thumb against Nasir’s chin. 

“Come to bed with me.”

He turns sharply for the door, not pausing to see if Agron is going to follow him, barely muttering a goodnight to the rest of the group before he slips across the hall, the guards parting. Agron lingers for just a moment, voice soft. 

“From now on, I want eyes on him at all times. If Ashur sneezes, I want to know. If he sees anyone, I want to know who and what they talked about. Nasir is not to be left alone, at any time. There is too much at stake for us to be gambling on.”

“I will alert Naevia,” Mira nods, standing beside Spartacus, linking their arms. 

“Do you really think he’s a threat?” Tove has been so quiet the whole time that Agron nearly forgot he was there. 

“I think that he has been in vampire custody for ten years,” Agron glances at his cousin, “and the first thing he wants to do after getting free is find the brother he hates. It’s not right.”

Agron leaves them with that, shoulders hunched in tension as he strides across the room after his husband. 

The moment they enter the suite, Chadara steps out of the shadows, aiming to help, but Agron waves her off. He's close on Nasir's heels, stepping around him to open the master bedroom door. He ushers Nasir inside, nodding his head down at Chadara to relieve her of charge. She hesitates for a moment, unsure, but Agron shakes his head at her, gently closing the door behind him.   
Nasir pauses by the bed, pulling his hair over one shoulder, grimacing when it catches on his wedding ring and he yanks it free. He’s punishing himself, wound tight and frustrated with what has just happened. Fingers scrambling, Nasir tries to undo the small pearl buttons that line the back of his tunic, hands shaking too much to accomplish the task. It's not the buttons that are bothering him, Nasir hissing and furious at himself for fighting with Pietros, heartsick over all the stress of it, angry at being so indecisive and unprepared. Nasir's stomach makes a miserable twist, sick and hot, and he swallows thickly, trying to keep the acid back. He doesn’t want to get sick, not sure if his body will recover from it.

"Hey, it’s okay." Agron murmurs, gently easing Nasir's hands down from the back of his neck, squeezing their entangled fingers. "I've got it."

Nasir lets him work for a moment, sighing when Agron eases the thick fabric down over his shoulders, shimming it down to the floor. Agron presses gentle kisses along the soft line of Nasir's neck, nuzzling against him. It's a gentle comfort, simple in its approach, and Nasir’s stomach settles. Agron seems intent on soothing the anger out of Nasir though, guiding him to the bed and making sure he is comfortable before stripping down and joining him on the other side. 

They settle together, Nasir presses his head to Agron’s chest, leaning into him as much as his full stomach will allow. Agron seems to relish in it though, stroking slowly over Nasir’s spine, reveling in the warmth of his skin. Tracing dizzying shapes on Nasir’s shoulder blade, Agron leans up to kiss the top of Nasir’s head as the smaller man sighs. He’s taken to stroking his nails along Agron’s sternum, mouth pouty and eyelashes thick when they brush Agron’s chest.

“Nasir,” Agron doesn’t hesitate, but chooses his words very carefully, “you know that Pietros is just worried about you. He only wants you to be safe. Whatever he said to you, he did out of love.”

“I am safe.” Muttering, Nasir nuzzles into the side of Agron’s pec. “Pietros is just pissed because he’s convinced that I am too trusting. He has this bitter idea that Ashur is here to fuck me over. But what type of brother would I be if I turned him away? He needs me and I am finally in a position to help him.”

Agron stares at the turquoise and scarlet canopy, writing his name and then Nasir's into the smooth skin under his fingertips. It is times like this that Agron is reminded of Nasir's age, his innocence. It is not nativity, no, as Nasir has seen his share of horrors in the world. Instead, it is more of a light, a hope that things can be better, that fate is not always so cruel.

"It has been many years since you have seen Ashur," Agron keeps his voice calm, light. The last thing he wants is to piss his husband off. "How are you sure that the man you remember is the same one as now? He has been held captive for a long time. Spartacus and Pietros are right in their concern. We should be cautious."  
"Cautious?" Instead of angry, Nasir's tone dips down, betrayed and hurt. He tilts his head up, staring up at Agron with big eyes. "You do not believe me? You agree with Pietros."

"No, my love, of course I believe you." Agron presses his mouth gently to Nasir's forehead. "I only think that heart has made you blind to gravity of situation. We cannot think just within ourselves anymore" He glances at Nasir’s stomach. “There are other people we must consider now.”

“You act as if he appeared and held blade to my throat and forced his way into my graces,” Nasir’s tone begins to shift, anger pulling his full mouth down into a frown. “What good is my fucking crown if I can’t grant sanctuary to those in need?”

“This has nothing to do with your status.” Agron takes a slow, deep breath, reminding himself not to lose his temper. He’s too fucking tired, bone weary even as Nasir rests against him. “I only meant-“

"He is a Pythonissan. We are the same blood." Nasir shakes his head, staring up at Agron with a lowered bottom lip. "We share the same father. I know him. How can I not? He’s my brother."

"Men change over years." Agron does not know why they are fighting, both of them clearly exhausted. "Ashur cannot escape the trials of time."

"If it were Duro, if it were your brother, would you turn him away? Would you abandon him?" Nasir cuts in, brow furrowed, "He is of me, Agron. Not some random stray. He is my family."

"Duro has not left my side since he was born," Agron keeps the same gentle tone. "I know who he is, I know every part of him."

“A thing I am reminded of every time his eyes roam over you.” Nasir spits, recoiling when Agron’s expressions flickers, hurt. 

“You think-“ Agron starts, but Nasir is quick to press his cold fingers to Agron’s mouth, shaking his head. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” Shuddering in a breath, Nasir kisses Agron’s mouth in apology. “It was cruel and uncalled for.”

“You know me, Nasir.” Agron strokes his fingers along Nasir’s shoulder blade again. “You know that my heart has been yours for a long time now.”

"And you know me," Nasir slips his fingers along Agron's jaw, "Can't you trust me?"

Agron can think of a million things to say, a million reasons why this is suspicious, but the look that Nasir is giving him stops the words in his throat. Nasir looks so eager, on the edge of believing that something good is happening, something finally falling into place. Agron has no reason to pull that away from him, to ruin it. 

"Of course I trust you." Agron nuzzles his nose against Nasir's. "I just want you safe. You _both_ safe."

Rubbing a hand over Nasir's stomach, Agron can't help the dimpled grin that pulls across his face when he feels the baby shift across his palm. It gives a few more quick taps, rapid fire and rough, before settling, almost of it it's giving its hello. 

"It'll be okay," Nasir strokes Agron's cheek again, "The baby will have another uncle. Besides, you two may get along. He was very skilled in fighting when we were younger."

Agron nods, smothering Nasir's next words with a kiss. He doesn't want to talk about this anymore, dwell on the what ifs and the dangers of their world now. Instead, Agron would rather curl up with Nasir, lose himself in the warmth of his mouth and the way Nasir's hands grip him, and the promise of life that will so soon be brought into this world.

\- - -

When considering his life, Ashur isn't sure he has a good memory of his childhood. There is no shining beacon of Kallistos' approval, no glimmering memory of his performances standing beyond others, no long lost caress on his brow by his mother. He doesn’t even know her name. Ashur was born first, but that doesn't matter. From an early age, it was clear that Ashur was different, but not in the way that Kallistos wanted. Ashur's back is bare, no magic flows in his skin, no blessing from the gods. He cannot see the future as Lido was gifted. Nor can he sing or create trees with his hands as Kalmar. Music has never gifted him with anything. Ashur cannot dance as Mika and Jem and Nasir. Instead, Ashur learned a dagger, found a way to gut a man in a crowd, slipped his fingers into life and clung to that. The need to triumph others only grew when the vampires took him in. 

Ten years separate Ashur and Nasir, and it has been ten years since he saw his youngest brother. Ashur can still remember Nasir curled up on a large pillow, lazily spinning the crystals above his head with a flick of his hand. It doesn't really matter. Nasir is the spitting image of Fatin, the slope of his brow, the fullness of his mouth, his gentleness to his servants. The Pythonissan people had sworn she was blessed by the gods, and Nasir is the evidence. Even without magic, Ashur can sense the world’s attunement to Nasir.

It is no wonder he has ended up here, a king over beasts. Ashur had witnessed Nasir's husband slipping out earlier, the monster king of Alptra. That is what people have been calling him outside of these lands, the killer on the throne, the beast crowned. Agron lingering in the doorway, murmuring to Nasir and kissing him in dizzying presses with his hands in his hair had not seemed as dangerous. Ashur had spied long enough to watch Agron pull away with a wet smack, smirking at the state he left Nasir, robe open and ruffled, before slipping away. 

Sitting across the table from his brother, Ashur's only evidence of their marriage is the thick crown around Nasir's head and his full stomach. He looks young, healthy and glowing, and Ashur has never hated him more. Hates him for what he carries, what he means to the vampires, that once again he is the top choice, the very best. He hates the bruises on Nasir’s chest, barely hidden by his thin tunic, hates the wolf charm around his neck, hates that Nasir is smiling and happy. 

"Uddin is here too," Nasir is prattling on, adding sugar to his tea with a small golden spoon. A year ago, Ashur is sure that Nasir would steal something like this, sell if off to a merchant so he can eat for a week. Not now though. "He belongs to a lord here, but he is doing well, it seems. Still healthy and so tall."

"It warms heart to hear such," Ashur's reply is automatic, glancing around the room. Nasir must have kicked everyone out, the two of them sharing a small table in the center of the largest room of Nasir's suite. 

"It is strange. When I was sold to the Alptraum, I thought I was going to be alone. Yet, I am surrounded by our people. Pietros and Uddin and now you." Nasir smiles, setting his spoon to his side. "I am so happy to see you after so many years, Ashur. I cannot even imagine the horror you've been through."

"Horror?" Ashur does not have to fake his surprise. He had not expected sympathy.

"Stolen by vampires," Nasir replies simply, brow furrowing. "We mourned you for a long time. Father never recovered from it, even after Lido and Kalmar shared the same fate of being taken, I think your departure hurt him the most. We always lit a candle for you."

"It has been..." Ashur trails off for effect, knowing that Nasir is his captive audience now. He doesn't want to give himself away, speaking of his duty to the vampires, of his reward of immortality if he pulls this off. "It has been hard. Vampires are not creatures so easily given to kindness or allowance of escape."

“But you are here. You have conquered," Nasir reaches across the table, laying his hand on top of Ashur's. "How did you come to find yourself here?"

Ashur has thought of this excuse many times, pondered on what angle to move the truth into to make this believable. It is not so much that Nasir needs to believe, but instead, that is a believable story for anyone who receives the story from Nasir. 

"In my cell, I heard the guards talking about a wolf king that slaughtered a whole vampire race, and that he had married a powerful witch." Ashur flinches on the word, knowing what effect it will have. "I heard that it was one of our own and I knew it was you. I thought, perhaps foolishly, that if someone as strong as your king could slaughter a whole group of vampires, then perhaps I would be safe here."

Nasir toys with his wolf necklace for a moment, dragging the charm back and forth. He’s staring far off, watching the bright sunlight on the balcony. There is a knowledge in his gaze, as if he’s reliving some version of his own horror. Across the table, Ashur fidgets with two small clay bottles in his pocket. One is dark red and will cause Nasir’s magic to surge, to grow and swell and encompasses him. The other, will snatch the magic away, stripping him until he lays simple and mortal.

“I sometimes wonder if Father knew our fates,” Nasir murmurs, gaze flickering sad and distant to Ashur’s face. “Do you think he knew that all of us would suffer? That we would be tortured and pushed beyond what we thought we could handle? Sometimes, I want to be so angry with him for not protecting us, but then, I think of this.” Nasir ghosts his hand down his stomach. “And I know that I would suffer a thousand more times, a million, if it meant that I could have this child.”

Ashur considers what Nasir is saying, resisting scowling at the sentimentality of it all. “We all have our vices and things that we suffer for.”

“You are safe now, Ashur. You do not have to fear again.” Nasir reaches forward, taking Ashur’s hand and gently rubbing his thumb over his brother’s knuckles. “Let me keep you safe and taken care of. The Alptra welcome you to our kingdom.”

“I am honored, your majesty.” Ashur grins, nodding his head at the term. He stands a moment later, taking Nasir’s tea cup and his own, moving towards the fire to refill it from the large metal kettle hanging over the flames. With his back turned and Nasir distracted by the sweet fig left for him, it is easy for Ashur to uncork a small vessel and add the contents to the dark cinnamon tea, tossing the clay into the flames after. 

“Here, little brother.” Ashur sets the steaming mug before Nasir. He watches as Nasir takes a long draw of it, smiling after and offering his thanks. “Now, tell me all about your husband. I have not had the pleasure to meet him.”

“Oh, Agron,” Nasir blushes just from saying the name. “He is magnificent. The perfect king both in skill with sword and kindness to his people. I cannot imagine myself without him now.”

“That is-“ Ashur doesn’t get a chance to finish his lie, cut off as the main door opens a crack and a thin, blonde woman enters. 

“Apologies, highness, but King Agron sent a message to remind you that you are needed in the throne room for the reassigning of the council soon. He requested you wear the crimson tunic.” Chadara bows low, not bothering to look at the other occupant in the room. 

Tipping his head back, Nasir gives a small peal of laughter and shakes his curls back from his face. It seems as if Agron has pried at some private joke between them as Nasir stands, nodding his consent as he throws back the rest of the tea, making a noise of discomfort when it burns his tongue. Ashur watches this all silently, surprised when servants begin to move into the room, side stepping one another to grab clothes and jewels. 

“May I attend as well?” Ashur’s tone is tentative, careful. “I wish to see your prized husband in full glory.”

“I do not see why not,” Nasir shrugs, easing his robe off and handing it to a servant with a gentle smile. “Diona, can you please make sure that my brother is properly dressed and prepared for the occasion? I am sure Laeta is looking for another reason to yell at me.”

“Highness.” A young brunette quickly bows, gently taking Ashur’s arm and guiding him to a side room. He only manages to catch a glimpse of Nasir peeling his tunic off, his shoulder bruised in six dark red marks, before Ashur loses sight of him.

\- - -

The doors to the throne room are intricately carved, diamonds and triangles patterned to point up towards the ceiling. Above the slanted doorway, two bronze wolves rear on their hind legs, their paws grasping a large moon between them. It is a mastery of craftsmanship as every inch of the wolves are covered in thinly designed hair, their eyes shimmering diamonds. 

Agron has walked through these doors before, has sat to the right of Gerulf and watched as he conducted business. This is where council meetings are held, where court will be conducted, where Agron slipped a crown onto Nasir's head and proclaimed him his mate for the whole world to see. This is Agron's throne room now, the room for the king. 

Beside him, Duro and Spartacus fidget with Duro's sash, the gold twisted and tangled with the ornamental sword at his hip. He looks older like this, regal as he tries to stand with his shoulders back, eyes facing forward. Spartacus looks ever the part of captain of the royal guard, armor custom made and fitted with two wolves on the front. 

"He is taking forever." Behind Duro, Tove idly picks at a thick cuff around his wrist. "I thought Pietros went after him."

"Hold tongue." Agron doesn't bother to put any heat behind it, more in agreement then annoyance. "He is your king and was up early to be with his brother. Give him time."

"And how do you find the man?" Crixus' raspy voice sounds from beside Spartacus, one arm easily draped around his wife's shoulders. On her hip, Yasmina plays with the hilt of her mother's sword, tiny baby fingers curling around the carved metal. 

"I did not meet him." Agron answers honestly. They are alone in the hall, no guards on either side of them, only a few lingering at the very end. "Nasir asked for privacy during their reunion. He thought that we may scare Ashur."

"Scare him? Is this not the brother who was kidnapped by vampires?" Crixus scoffs thickly, shaking his head. "We are to be feared, yes, but I doubt we are that terrifying next to creatures that literally suck the blood out of humans for sport."

"Pietros does not like him," Duro finally straightens his clothes, muttering thanks to Spartacus as he turns towards the rest of the group. "He refused to sleep alone in Nasir's suite."

"I was there all night. I would have heard if Ashur tried anything." Agron shakes his head, sighing. "Nor is it fair to judge a man before we have just cause. For all we know, Ashur could have had a change of heart and came to seek Nasir out for just and true causes."

"And the vampires spotted in the mountains last night came to wish them well?" Naevia speaks up, bouncing Yasmina a little on her hip. 

"What vampires? Where was the report of this?" Spartacus speaks before Agron can, brow knitted as he addresses her. 

"We meant to bring it up at the council meeting." Crixus supplies, motioning towards his wife. "Naevia received the report that some of our scouts had come across vampire tracks in the mountains to the Southwest. When investigating further, they saw that the creatures had stayed within a cave but had moved on, downwind we believe."

"Why would vampires be here?" Duro speaks up again, glancing over at Tove. "Did we invite them to the Namesake Festival?"

"We didn't send out invites yet," Agron mutters, turning away from the group to glance out the tall window beside him. 

"Vampire scouts then? Looking for retribution after our attack those months ago?" Tove's voice fades to a murmur as Agron steps away, close enough to the glass of the window that it fogs in front of his mouth. 

He can see some of the shops below from this vantage point, smoke curling from fires and hearths. People have scattered around the streets, calling to one another, rushing about their business. Beyond, the wall that surrounds the capital glimmers white and sharp. Yet, just above it, and moving quickly, a large black cloud seems to be curling and rolling over itself. It is moving much too fast for it to be natural, lightning shattering out of it. 

"Agron? Your highness, what do you want us to do?" Spartacus' voice cuts through, apprehensive and sharp, but Agron cannot spare him a glance. Instead, he watches as the cloud draws closer, expanding and shuddering until it nearly blocks the whole entire sky. 

"What the fuck?" Duro seems to have caught on, inching towards the window as well. 

"The sky was clear but a moment ago." Naevia mutters too, holding a candle as the hall is suddenly darkened as the cloud covers the sky. 

Distantly, Agron can hear the quick patter of feet on stones, shuffling fabric and someone calling his name. They're still far enough off that no one else can hear yet, Agron's wolf howling and snarling to be let out. Every hair on his body is standing on end, watching in barely contained horror as the cloud breaks open, one bolt of lightning hitting the courtyard with a terrible crash. It is loud enough to shake the glass in the window before him, the very carpet under his feet seeming to tremble. 

"Fuck!" 

A chorus of voices complain behind him, Yasmina starting to cry, but Agron cannot breathe. There is something hot and thick twisting in his stomach, burning him up, tanging metallic at the back of his throat. Turning away from the storm, Agron looks down the hall and meets Pietros' eyes. His hair a wild mess, mouth panting, but there are no words that need to be shared. Agron already knows. 

"Naevia, go get Melitta and Völva. Now."

Agron commands, voice a deep growl. He knows that if he doesn't follow Pietros soon, he's going to shift. There will be no way to stop the magic coursing through him, pulling him, controlling him. Inside his mind, he can already hear the screaming, the crash and thudding of hands on the walls of his mind.

"Agron, the council meeting. Solonius will be there, as will the others. If you go now, there is no telling what could happen." Spartacus warns, not aiming to anger but stating the truth. “We must make a stand now.”

Agron turns to him sharply, digging through his pocket for a moment before producing a large pin, a curved golden paw, its claws four sapphires. He quickly pins it to Spartacus' chest over his heart, drawing his sword in the next moment as Spartacus instantly drops to one knee. 

"I, Agron, son of Gerulf, King of Alptra, hereby bestow upon you the honor and privilege of hand of the king. Your duty and your life are forever sworn to the protection and service of the royal family, the noble house, and the people of Alptraum. Should you betray or forfeit your vow, your punishment will be a thousand deaths. Do you swear?"

Spartacus can hear the desperation in Agron's voice, the words growled and clipped. He does not understand all of what is happening, but he does know that this moment is important - that this changes everything. 

"I swear it."

"Arise." Agron taps the sword tip to each of Spartacus shoulders, quickly sheathing it. "Now go, take care of it. You know who I choose to be on my council. I trust you. I need to go."

Behind them, another rumble of thunder shakes the ground, the sky lighting up as bolts of lightning – ultraviolet, magenta, and chartreuse light up the darkness. They do not touch the ground, but connect and shatter like sunlight through glass. When Agron looks down, a small vine as grown around his wrist.

"But-" Duro tries to speak up as Agron turns, quickly beginning to sprint down the hallway. "Agron! What's wrong? Where are you going?"

"Nasir!" Agron shouts back, just as he reaches Pietros, both of them turning to look back at the rest of them, panting and bewildered.

“The baby is coming!”

Agron flashes a manic grin and dashing back up the hallway towards the stairs.

\- - - 

The consort's suite is a mess of bodies, servants running back and forth with blankets, pushing furniture out of the way and tripping over one another to get water, to heat tea, to air the room. The master bedroom door keeps banging open and shut, the wailing from within echoing clear down the hall. The guards stand tense and clumped together, glancing between themselves and the servants dashing around them. 

Agron's chest is throbbing, heart slamming into his ribs as he reaches the end of the hall. He can instantly tell that it's pandemonium, no one sure what to do while doing everything at once. He's at a loss himself, the need to fix this pulling at him, but overpowered by the necessity of being with Nasir. Thankfully, he doesn't have to decide as suddenly Naevia is in the doorway, Melitta behind her. 

"Everyone stop!" 

She shouts at the top of her lungs, slamming a hand into the doorframe hard enough for it to shudder back against the wall with a loud bang. It takes instant effect, everyone pausing and instantly dropping into a bow when they see Agron. 

"Guards, what the fuck are you doing?" 

Small and fierce, Naevia glares at the four huge men crowding outside of the door, all of them gaping. 

"Close down this hallway. I want no one to enter unless they are with Spartacus or Crixus and no one is to enter this royal suite. If I see one fucking noble woman trying to pester the consort, I will have you running drills until you cannot fucking stand."

The guards quickly split, moving to either end to shut down the length of the corridor. It will not be long before people begin to wander up here, hoping to catch a glimpse of the heir.

Naevia turns towards the servants, flinching when Nasir lets out another low moan. Someone has left the master bedroom door open, just a crack, and Nasir’s sobs are audible through it. Pietros takes over from there, stepping forward to stand beside Naevia, glancing fervently at the doorway. 

“Diona, take the towels and water and go with Melitta and Völva. Chadara, I need you with me.” Pietros waves his arms, motioning the two women apart. “The rest of you, I want no one to enter that bedroom when it begins. Prepare a warm bath and begin to unpack the baby’s things. The nursery should be set and ready for the arrival of the heir.”

With a clapping of his hands, Pietros and Naevia put their plan into action, marching up the center of the suite and towards the main bedroom. Agron does not have to be told to follow, hands curled into fists tight enough he can feel his knuckles cracking. The tension that has been building in him since he first saw the storm seems to strengthen tenfold as he enters into the dim room. 

The curtains are drawn over the tall windows, balcony doors kept shut. It cloaks the room in shadows, a single candle flickers gold and hot across the walls. Thick black vines have crawled up the stones and tapestry, thorns dripping magenta liquid. In the center of the bed, Nasir writhes on his back, knees bent at an odd angle and out. He's sweating, skin dripping gold and glistening, hands tangled in his hair. Beside him, Ashur kneels on the bed, whispering something into Nasir's ear that makes him moan weakly. 

"Get away from him!" Pietros snarls, ripping his arm out of Naevia's grip, charging towards the bed. 

"He is-" Ashur begins, but then suddenly freezes, looking past Pietros to see Agron. 

He hadn't even realized it happened, fangs dripping as Agron's eyes glare neon and bright, his body reacting before his mind can catch up. He is half transformed, face wrinkled as Agron lets out a terrible growl, nails digging into the door enough to splinter the wood. Ashur reacts instantly, slowly sliding back and off the bed, raising his hands in surrender. It does not escape the group that there is an amphora of wine shattered on the floor, curtains around the bed shredded by four matching lines - fingernails.

"Agron?" Bleary eyed and weeping, Nasir turns his head. 

"I'm here." Agron steps carefully around Pietros and Melitta, moving towards the bed. 

He loses focus on the others in the room, letting them fall behind him in a rush of voices as Agron eases onto the bed. He is careful when he brushes the hair from Nasir's face, kisses his forehead, before easing the other man up. Nasir groans when he's vertical, wrapping his arms around his stomach as if he aims to keep the pain back just by how roughly he's squeezing. 

Agron works quickly on the ornate tunic someone's dressed him in, thin string lacing the crimson and gold fabric up the back. They've knotted it in ornate loops and curls, and before Agron can get the first one undone, Nasir is writhing away from him. He sobs into his hands, biting the heel of his thumb hard enough it looks like he may draw blood. 

"Shhh," Soothingly, Agron presses up against Nasir's back and rubs his hands in small circles over his stomach. "You can scream if you need to, Nasir. You do whatever you need to do."

"I want it out of me." Moaning, Nasir turns to press his sweaty forehead to Agron's cheek. "Something is wrong, Agron. This isn't right. It’s too early. I wasn’t supposed to have it until another month."

Agron can feel Nasir's magic against him, burning and crackling. It seems to want to consume the man, to hurt him and destroy. They had talked extensively about the birth, about the magic the baby was taking, and it was never like this. It should have been light; it should have been a blessing. 

Easing his claws under the ties up the back of Nasir's shirt, Agron quickly shreds them, casting the shirt aside. He knows it probably is ruined, wasted money and time by a skilled craftsman to embroider the snakes running up the side, but it doesn't matter. Agron situates himself up against the headboard, pulling Nasir to rest against his chest, cocooning him in his arms. 

At the end of the bed, Melitta and Pietros are working in tandem to put together what appears to be an altar. Four large white pillar candles sit in each corner, a red one in the very center. To the right, a small statue of gold reflects the light off a snake's face, it's body that of a heavily pregnant man. To the other side, a man holding the earth in one hand and a dagger in the other, this status cast in silver. 

"You remember how to do this yes?" Völva appears at Nasir's elbow, gently patting his cheeks with a cool rag. She smears something minty and sharp across Nasir's chest, soothing the salve into his skin. “You just need to concentrate and let the magic do its work.”

"Speaking of it and actually doing it are two different things," Nasir mutters, fingers flexing in the fabric across Agron's thighs. 

"You know how to do this," Völva encourages, her thick accent tinging the words. "You are a god, remember? You have created things before. The baby is of the same."

Nasir groans, eyes sliding shut as he tries to turn away from her. Another round of pain eases over him, choking him as the gold on his skin turns to thick ropes of black, twisting and curling around one another. Agron has seen this magic before, the darker side of Nasir's power, but he will not let it play a part in the birth of their child. Even with the storm continuing to rage outside, Agron knows that there is hope in this. 

"Hey," Pressing his lips to Nasir's ear, Agron whispers to him as he strokes his sides through the contraction. "You remember when you first told me that you were pregnant?"

"When you were leaving me to go kill vampires?" Nasir hisses, nails digging through the leather of Agron's pants and into his thigh. From down the bed, Agron can see the top of Pietros' head raise, dark eyes glancing up at the king. 

"When you showed me what the baby was going to look like. Those dark curls and we were with it," Agron kisses Nasir's temple, rocking him a little, "We have been waiting for so long for this baby. You have been through so much, and now you just have to hold on a little longer and you will be able to hold it in your arms."

"I'm not ready," Nasir's wet cheek smears across Agron's when he turns to look up at his husband. "I'm not. We're not. I'm too young and we don't know what we're doing."

"You know exactly what you're doing." From Nasir's other side, Pietros gently takes the king's hand, pulling Nasir's knuckles to his mouth to kiss. "You can do this, Nasir. We are here, all of us, and there are a lot more of us outside. Barca and Auctus and Mira. Uncle Duro wants to hold his niece or nephew too."

Nasir presses his fingers to Pietros' cheek, the two of them just staring at each other for a moment. They both know that this isn't right, that the magic is too strong, that something has happened, but in this moment - it seems to fade. Nasir can still remember five-year-old Pietros and his curls, lying beside Nasir in their wagon. Children and dreaming of something more - of a life away from fires and traveling and dancing. And this is it. This is their fate, different but together. 

"Fatin would be proud of you," Pietros murmurs, leaning down to press his forehead to Nasir's, "She _is_ proud of you."

"I wish she was here," Nasir whispers, a stray tear sliding down to get lost along his jaw. "She should have been here."

"A lot of people should be here that are not," Pietros replies, his eyes closed tightly against his own tears, "We can do nothing but live in their absence and pray to return to their arms one day."

“I love you Pietros. You are my brother, first and foremost. It doesn’t matter about blood.” Nasir begins to cry harder, choking on a sob. 

“I love you too.” Pietros kisses Nasir, a gentle press of their lips before pulling back. “Now, find strength and let us bring that beautiful baby into this world, okay?”

Sobbing, Nasir nods his head, holding the back of Pietros' neck. He can feel Agron caresses his fingers through his hair, murmuring something in Alptra that he's not even sure are real words. At his feet, Völva and Naevia have begun to light the candles, careful not to light the one in the center yet. Pietros has to release him to help them, easing a thick necklace of gold entwined snakes over his head. 

"We don't have enough magic," Nasir whispers, looking around the room. He can see the storm outside beginning to wane, the lightning lessening as Nasir grows weaker. "Pietros, we need more."

"There is no one else," Pietros replies, cutoff as Nasir's contractions hit again - powerful and sharp. "Alkhaliq and Sator will have to give us strength."

"Pietros," Moaning, Nasir shakes his head. "You know we cannot do this alone."

"You have me," Völva offers, but even her face is twisted in concern. 

"There is no one else," Pietros snaps, turning sharply to glare down at Nasir. "He does not have magic and Uddin is not ours to ask. We need-" He chokes. 

"Mika and Jem." Nasir's words are gritted out as his heels drag along the sheets. "They are not here and we must make do! We are Pythonissan. We are Sator's sons. I need them."

"You can't-" Pietros tries to argue again, but Nasir cuts him off with a hiss.

"I have to _will_ a child into this world. I have to bring it from inside of me and into this life," Nasir twists in discomfort, "I cannot do it on the hope and faith of-" He stops himself on a near scream, wailing in pain. Agron is quick to rub his hands across Nasir's stomach, but it does little to soothe him. 

"Do whatever your king commands," Agron bites out when Nasir's contractions last longer, his spine arches sharply as he writhes from the pain. Pietros waves his hand, huffing as he leaves the room, slamming the door unkindly.

Against his chest, Agron gently turns Nasir until he's curled on his side, his head resting on Agron's shoulder, breath hot on his neck. This way relieves some of the pressure on Nasir's back, his body curled close and burning. Agron can feel Nasir's heart throbbing against his ribs, his body sticky and slick with sweat. Still, the flutter of the baby moving inside of Nasir never stops amazing Agron. 

"I can't believe I let you do this to me," Nasir huffs, fingers flexing in Agron's shirt. "We're never fucking again."

"Don't say things you don't mean," Agron teases back, light and gentle, as he strokes Nasir's spine. "And if I remember correctly, it was I that said that first and _you_ were the one to beg me to join you in that bath."

"How could you blame me? You were the first man to ever-" Nasir glances down at where Melitta and Völva are silently waiting, arranging things on the altar to be just right. He blushes, pausing himself from saying too much. 

_First man to ever bring you to highest pleasure? It is no fault of yours that you grew addicted._ Agron brushes his fingers over the slope of Nasir's nose. In response, Nasir wrinkles it, nipping at Agron's fingers. 

"Perhaps next time, you should carry the child and I the sword," Nasir mutters darkly, grimacing as another pain moves through him. 

"I aim to have you carry both the child and the sword," Agron soothes, easing Nasir back onto his back. He breathes with Nasir, eases him through the contractions just as Pietros bangs open the door, Uddin and Ashur lingering behind him.

He instantly begins putting the men in their place, stationing Uddin and Ashur on either side of the bed as Pietros takes the place before the altar. He drapes his arms in the crimson cloth from before, the edges lined with golden tassels, arms straight and palms towards the ceiling. To his left, Ashur does the same as Uddin repeats the motion. Uddin’s arms tremble, a bruise staining the side of his neck as his cruelly bitten mouth frowns. It is clear what he has been pulled from to serve the king. Yet, he can’t seem to stop from glancing at Pietros and then down to Nasir, panicked and afraid. Across from him, Ashur stares unblinkingly at Nasir’s stomach, almost as if he wishes the skin to split and the baby to appear. 

“Nasir, stay focused.” Pietros murmurs, reading himself before the altar. There is some strange metallic paint across the bridge of his nose, shimmering in the light. “You must bring the baby out of the magic it dwells in, from inside of your magic, and into this world. You carried its life inside of you and now it's time to separate it.”

“I understand.” Nasir nods, body shaking as he tries to get comfortable. 

“Let us pray.” 

Behind Pietros, Melitta, Naevia, and Völva stand against the wall. They’re silent, staring straight ahead, each clasping a black unlit candle in their hands. They bow their heads when Pietros begins to speak, eyes closing tightly. 

“Sator protect me and give me strength. Father and creator, life and magic. Bring your blessings upon me. So that I may live my life in your glory and love.”

Agron doesn’t know these gods. They seem ornate and strange compared to his own, each of them with their own names and their own reasons for existence. Still, he says the words with Nasir, closes his eyes and prays that these gods will listen. He then sends up a prayer to his own, to the moon and the wolf and the sun, that they will shed their blessings and protect the man that currently rests in Agron’s arms. 

“Alkhaliq,” Nasir whispers, words thick, “Be with me now.”

At the edge of the bed, Apep slowly peaks his head up over the edge of the blankets, burrowing through them until he can wrap his gray body around Nasir’s ankle. He licks supportively at his master’s foot, tongue flickering over the top. Pietros eyes them both, nodding at Agron as if to give warning of their beginning.

Easing his fingers along Nasir’s chin, Agron tilts his head back and gently kisses him. It’s a barely there press, tongue tapping against Nasir’s bottom lip before withdrawing. He presses their foreheads together, a breath of air as Agron inhales, swallows his own fear to focus all his energy on Nasir. 

“I love you and I believe in you. You can do this. I am here.”

Nasir smiles, stroking his fingers against Agron’s stubble, gaze bleary and exhausted. 

“I love you too.”

Behind them, Pietros clears his throat and tilts his head back. It’s a sign as ever for all of them to focus. At first, it almost seems as if nothing is going to happen. Each person in the room breathes slow, eyes focused down on the altar, the ticking of a clock somewhere keeping time as if a pendulum. Then, a noise begins to grow from the center of Nasir’s chest. It’s not quite a whine nor a humming, but a steady hiss that grows and grows until Nasir begins to tremble. 

Gold lines crisscross and shatter across his skin, erratic weaving of light that glows even under Nasir’s thin pants. Between the shards of light, crimson and black wave through. Agron can feel his skin getting hotter and hotter, a splattering of scales dancing over Nasir’s brow as Nasir’s body writhes. Outside, the storm has begun to thunder louder, a pounding steady as if the whole world is pounding one mighty war drum – preparing for this child, their prophesied warrior to be born. 

Tension builds as Nasir’s nails drag along the sheets, shredding the blankets into ribbons. He’s fighting against his shifting, body trying to curl against itself. Agron keeps him grounded to the bed, locking his arms around Nasir’s chest and pressing his mouth to Nasir’s ear. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying, growling and whispering into his ear, begging the very fucking gods above them to ease this. 

Across the room, Melitta’s candle flickers into light, the flames appearing one after another on Naevia and then Völva’s. The altar rattles, the scarlet candle in the center flickering sparks of light in a plethora of colors. Nasir is whispering to himself, hissing between his cries in Pythonissa, Uddin looking as if he wants to answer but too awestruck to do much of anything. Ashur stares with narrowed eyes and a slowly grinning mouth. 

“I can’t do this. I can’t do this.” Nasir pants, shaking his head as he collapses against Agron’s chest, “I’m not strong enough. I’m sorry but I can’t.”  
“You can do this. You fucking can,” Agron murmurs, brushing hair back from Nasir’s face. “You are one of the most powerful beings in this world, Nasir. You can do this. Just a little longer.”

“Agron,” Nasir is openly crying now, back trying to arch but the weight of his body not allowing him to. He rocks from side to side, digging his fists into the thick mattress below him. “It hurts! I want it to be over. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“I know my love. I know. Just hold on for a little longer.” Agron kisses Nasir’s cheeks, holding him as tightly as he can.

“Come on. Come on!” Shouting above the banging outside, Pietros’ curls look wild around his focused expression. There are a mix of leaves swirling around him, caught in some invisible wind. “Nasir come on!”

The light across his body grows more intense, the glare of it blazing brighter than it seems the sun ever could. Outside, the storm is banging against the glass of the castle, lightning rainbows shattering together above them. The glowing of Nasir’s body fills the room with white heat, a beacon of magic. It is indescribable, power flaring as the room suddenly disappears, each person blinking from existence under the glow. Even Nasir’s ongoing scream, his prolonged note is cut off, erased from existence as the world falls into silence. 

Then, as if awakening from the blindness of light, another sound takes the place of the first one. From within the stark white, a baby shudders in a breath and lets out a cry, and everything snaps back into reality. The magic that had surrounded the room, the suffocating heat and brightness, demolished in wake of what lays squirming in Pietros’ arms. 

“Holy shit,” Naevia’s hand is pressed to her mouth, her candle forgotten on the floor, the flame out. In fact, the whole room is cast into darkness except for the original flame that is on the bedside table. “Holy fucking shit.”

“Pietros-“ Melitta asks, stepping half a step forward. She does not need to complete the sentence. In Pietros arms, the baby gives another mighty wail, its tan arms and legs waving in defiance. 

Panting against Agron’s chest, Nasir struggles to keep himself upright, already the exhaustion trying to take him under. He desperately claws at the blankets though, craning his head. Behind him, Agron helps to hold him up, staring desperately down the bed to see if he can catch a glimpse of the child now being held in Pietros’ grasp.

“Is it okay? Agron? Is the baby alright?” Nasir’s voice is faint, weakened by the amount of magic it took to bring the baby into this world. 

“It’s perfect.”

Pietros wraps the blanket quickly around the squirming child, stepping towards the couple. There are already tears streaking down his cheeks, mouth gaping in awe. 

“Nasir, look at your son!”

Supporting Nasir, Agron draws him up enough that he can take the baby from Pietros’ arms, curling it close to his chest. The child is beautiful, tan with a mass of black curls across his head. His face is smooth, broad nose leading down to his gently curved mouth, the familiarity of it being found on Agron’s own face. Nasir traces the cupid’s bow with a finger, inhaling when the baby stops crying and opens its eyes. There is no mistaking that this child is Agron’s, the baby’s electric green eyes stare at his parents, unblinking and focused. He seems to realize that the people in front of him are important then, because he waves both of his arms, back arching his body towards them. 

“Oh.” Nasir lets the little sound slip out, fingers still stroking over the baby’s face. 

“Fuck.” Behind Nasir, Agron doesn’t even attempt to brush the tears off his face, instead caresses his fingertips against the baby’s curls, smiling down at it. “He’s fucking beautiful, Nasir. Fucking perfect. Look at him. He’s everything.”

Agron presses his mouth against Nasir’s, once and then again and then again, joy radiating off of him as the baby wiggles in Nasir’s arms. He is large for a baby, long and chubby with a rounded stomach and curled fingers. Yawning, the baby snuggles against Nasir’s fingers, content now that he is born and in safe hands. 

“I have been waiting for you,” Nasir whispers to the child, stroking the baby’s cheeks now. “All this time when you were inside of me, I was waiting and waiting. And now you’re here, and I don’t think I have ever loved anything in this whole entire world as much as I love you.”

“We both love you.” Agron kisses Nasir’s shoulder, staring down at his son. “Nothing else in the world matters now that we have him.”

“He is perfect,” Pietros has his arms wrapped around Naevia, both of them wiping tears from their cheeks. “Look at him. He is the most beautiful baby in the whole world.”

“What will you name him?” Uddin asks softly, not bold enough to approach the bed. 

Nasir glances up at Agron, grinning as if he expects his husband to give some weird, old Alptraum name as a reply. He’s surprised then, when Agron doesn’t look at Nasir, but instead glances at Pietros, both of them sharing a small smile before he turns his attention back to Nasir’s speculative expression. 

“Malik.” Agron smiles slowly, dimples denting his cheeks. “His name is Malik.”

He says it in Pythonissan, the words a little thick and little mispronounced, but it is a start. Nasir’s exhausted eyes widen comically, a delighted grin spreading across his face. 

“That’s a Pythonissan name,” Nasir murmurs.

“I know. It is the name of the first ruler of Pythonissa,” Agron kisses Nasir again, simple and sweet. “It means king.”

Turning to the sleeping baby in his arms, Nasir leans down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead, followed gently by his own in a soft tap. He eases the child up a moment later for Agron to do the same, his hand looking huge on the back of the baby’s head when he caresses over the back of it. Neither of the men seem to be interested in moving away, curled up around one another and holding their newborn son. 

\- - - 

Nasir wakes in stages. First is the shock of it, the tension in his back and shoulders, the fear that quickly melts to safety and warmth when he recognizes the soft furs brushing against him. He had been dreaming of darkness, of caves that ran deep underground, and lavish rooms over flowing with blood. The next is the pleasure in realizing that Nasir is sprawled on his stomach, face pressed into the velvet fabric of the pillow. He can tell that his body isn't completely restored, chest still sensitive and swollen, but his stomach is back to being relatively smooth. It’s a strange juxtaposition, to be so full only hours ago and then now, slowly sinking back into his regular shape. There is a deep ache in him though, a throbbing pain from his spine as his magic tries to recover and heal him. It will be a while until he feels whole again, right in his own skin. 

The fire in the hearth has burned down, a deep umber glow filling around the stones. Even though it has not been stoked in a while, the room is still warm. It illuminates the outline of Agron, half curled half sprawled on a settee drawn up between the bed and the cradle. He has one leg hooked over the back and on foot on the floor, his right hand wrapped loosely around one of the bars on the crib. Nasir can only imagine how uncomfortable he must be, but Agron had insisted on letting Nasir have the bed, wanting him to have space. 

Slowly, careful not to jostle himself too much and draw noise, Nasir slips out from under the covers. He had taken a bath soon after everything had settled, Malik settled in Agron’s arms, and dressed in loose pants and no shirt. Standing now, Nasir has to ease the knot out and retie the fabric around him, pleased when it fits across his hips in a straight line. Padding on bare feet, he tiptoes to the side of the crib, glancing in at his sleeping son. 

Malik is laid on his back, wild curls pressed against the pillow in an inky halo. He's been dressed in a fitted scarlet onesie, the sleeves long on his wrists and ankles, an embroidered design etched along the hem with gold and silver. He looks perfectly content in sleep, little mouth trembling as his fingers curl by his cheek, keeping the soft wolf fur blanket against him. Nasir's breath catches when he looks down at him, thick warmth filling his chest at how small and beautiful he is. Nasir is still too awed to really fully grasp yet that this little baby before him is here because of Agron and Nasir, he lives because of their joint magic. 

Stepping away from Malik, Nasir shakes his head affectionately at Agron, carefully repositioning a blanket over his legs. Agron doesn't stir, the makings of dark circles under his eyes. Nasir wants to run his thumb against them, smooth out the tension and exhaustion from his husband. Agron had been more than amazing, had held Nasir and offered support and been strong when Nasir thought there was no more strength to be had. A year ago, Nasir would have laughed if anyone had told him he would have someone like Agron. Now, he cannot imagine his life without him. His chest hurts even thinking of a life where Agron wasn’t constantly beside him. 

Slipping on his robe, the thicker pearl colored one with the fur collar, Nasir pads over to the balcony door, easing it open and out onto the cold stones. The gray sky is illuminated by the half full face of the moon, stars hidden behind clouds. From them, tiny flakes of snow have begun to fall, clinging already to the eaves and windowpanes of the castle. Nasir has never seen snow, never been this far north to experience it, and he raises his hand, cupping his palm as the white kisses his hand before melting. It seems the whole world has settled, quiet and dark, as the blanket of white begins to creep along the edges of the city. All is content and Nasir hates that his chest feels tight.

Inside the suite, Nasir knows that Ashur is sleeping, reacquainting himself with the time difference. He has been under vampire care for so long he seems to have forgotten the merits of the sun, even shying away from the candle light and fires. He is Nasir's brother, yes, but Nasir does not know him. He can barely remember Ashur, only the cruel snarl of his mouth and the way his hands had gripped Nasir’s shoulders, shaking him. Ashur had been the brother to draw Nasir away from Agron the first time, the time when Nasir had broken Pythonissan law to lift his veil and kiss a random boy on the street. He still doesn’t know why he did it, doesn’t remember the reason, only the strange heat that filled him after, fingers wound tight around the gold wolf necklace he had snatched.

The ache that fills Nasir's chest has nothing to do with his body trying to reclaim itself, but everything to do with the absence around him. He misses his brothers like an acute sore constantly nagging at him, constantly burning him up. Nasir cannot help but wonder what Mika and Jem would think of Malik, if they would love and adore him as much as Nasir does. If Kallistos would shed tears when he held his first grandson. Would Lido and Kalmar rejoice and read the stars and the lights in the forest to see what Malik’s’ future would hold? Would they remember their youngest brother? 

Nasir knows that he is not alone. He has a family within the walls of the castle - a new family but a family all the same, and yet he cannot choke down this longing that twists sickeningly inside of him. He wishes things were simpler, that the marriage had bounded two people together instead of gifting Nasir and Pietros to the Alptraum as the Pythonissans fled. 

The snow sticks to Nasir's hair, his eyelashes when he tilts his head up to receive it. He wants to believe that things will get easier now, that the horror of the past has melted, has disappeared under the new light - the glory and blessing of Malik’s birth. All that matters now is the sleeping prince inside. It may be a foolish hope, but Nasir clings to the remembrance that Gerulf is dead and they have no other enemies. Not true ones. Not ones that plot against their crown. 

"You will catch your death out here, staring at the sky." Agron's soft voice sounds from the doorway, spiked hair a wild mess as he rubs the sleep from his eyes. He approaches Nasir slowly, easing behind and wrapping his arms around Nasir's waist. He can see through the open edges of the robe that Nasir is covered in goosebumps. 

"I have never seen snow." Murmuring, Nasir leans his head back on Agron's shoulder, letting his husband's large arms wrap around him. 

"It is the first of the season," Agron presses his lips to Nasir's cheek. "A sign of good luck and fortune on the same day our son is born. The people will rejoice and offer sacrifices up to the moon in good favor."

"A million bad luck charms and curses could be bestowed upon the world today," Nasir nuzzles his nose against Agron's jaw, "and I would still believe that Malik is the most wonderful thing this world has ever known."

“Thank you,” Agron caresses his fingers on Nasir’s cheek, “Thank you for your strength, for your perseverance, for your magic.”

“It was not me alone,” Nasir shakes his head, kissing Agron’s palm. “I could not do it without you.”

“I did not bring a child into this world tonight,” Agron taps his finger on Nasir’s chin, “I did not tear myself apart to give life to another being. You did that. You are amazing. I will never stop thanking you for our son.”

“You were more a help than you know.” Nasir smiles slowly, shy and soft. “Our son is the product of our magic, not mine alone. Our love brought him into this world. Out of everything that I have ever done, he is the only thing that I can be proud of. He isn’t touched by darkness or lust or death. Malik is pure and good. It is ours forever.”

Turning Nasir, Agron draws him against his chest, leaning down to kiss him slowly. It begins by a simple press of their mouths, breath ghosting up in a fog from the chill, before Agron holds Nasir's face between his hands, tilting him enough to slot them flush. Slowly, they unravel one another, tasting and touching in places where they had only been bold enough to tease before. Now though, Nasir's body can lay perfectly enclosed in Agron's grasp, his excitement hot and burning as he slips his hands under the hem of Agron's shirt. He's just about to slide his hands up Agron's spine when a soft wail disrupts them. 

"Malik," Agron pants, easing himself gently away from Nasir. “He already has the lungs of a wolf.”

"He’s hungry.” Slipping his hand into Agron’s, Nasir motions with his head, “Come on.”

They move back into the bedroom together, Agron helping to ease the robe off Nasir’s weary shoulders before watching closely as Nasir lifts their son from the crib. Malik’s green eyes are damp, cheeks reddened and wet. As upset as he appears, Malik instantly latches one tiny fist around a strand of Nasir’s hair, quieting down when he recognizes who is holding him. 

Agron is all quiet noises and gentle hands when he guides Nasir back towards the bed, situating him against the pillows. He can see the line of exhaustion pulling on Nasir’s body, the way his eyes droop. Hour is late, but it was not so long ago that Nasir managed to bring Malik from the world of magic and his body and into the world of now. Agron is surprised Nasir managed to even stand, let alone ease himself out onto the balcony during the first snow fall. 

“He is already strong.” Nasir murmurs, turning Malik so he can latch onto his chest. “Look at that grip.”

“He’s an Alptraum prince. We’re born with hands ready for swords.” 

Sitting across from them, Agron leans forward to stroke his finger along the curve of Malik’s fist, amazed when the baby’s grip tightens on Nasir’s hair. He suckles steadily, eyes trained on Nasir’s face as if he is trying to memorize it. He doesn’t slow when Agron begins to stroke his curls, but hums contentedly, glancing in his other father’s direction. 

“What will he call us?” Nasir asks, lifting his eyes away from Malik only for a moment. 

“What do you mean?” Agron’s fingers have taken to curling around the shape of his brow, down to his ear. 

“We can’t both be called Daddy. That’s confusing,” Nasir switches Malik to the other side, cooing at him when Malik threatens with a wrinkled nose. He instantly latches back on, one leg kicking slightly.

“The Pythonissan word for father is Baba, isn’t it?” Agron doesn’t need to look at Nasir to know he is delightedly grinning, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He’s stroking his finger down Malik’s tiny nose, the babe wiggling in excitement from being given all of Nasir’s attention. He pulls back with a wet smack, Nasir easing him on his back. 

“It is. I like it.” Nasir coos the words, pressing a gentle kiss to Malik’s forehead with the baby makes a whine for attention. “Your daddy and your baba love you very much, did you know that Malik? Of course you did. You know you loved already, already spoiled rotten. Already such a little prince.”

“He has so many aunts and uncles to spoil him,” Agron murmurs, pressing his mouth gently to Malik’s forehead. “I’m sure Duro will try to buy him his own horse before Malik can even stand.”

“Better a stable full of horses than an armory full of weapons.” Nasir smooths his fingers over where Agron’s jaw presses to Malik’s temple. 

Malik wiggles again, mouth opening in a wide yawn a moment later. He’s full of milk, warm and safe in Nasir’s arms, wrapped in a soft wolf’s fur blanket. It does not take the prince long before his eyes are droopy, releasing his grip on Nasir’s hair to curl his hands by his face. 

“Here.” 

Reaching out, Agron takes Malik from Nasir, carefully situating the babe in the crook of his arm. Malik looked huge in Nasir’s grasp, but curled up in Agron’s grip, Malik looks tiny in comparison to the flexed muscle of Agron’s arm. He sits comfortably there though, little face turned so he can gum at Agron’s bicep, drooling. 

“Get comfortable. He’s almost out anyways.” Agron motions towards Nasir as he turns and walks back towards the cradle. 

Nasir doesn’t have to be told twice, sinking into the soft comfort of the blankets and mattress around him. He’s nearly asleep already, but he manages to stay awake just enough to hear the gentle timber of Agron’s voice. It takes Nasir a moment to realize what he’s doing, having to press a hand to his mouth to hold back his awestruck and delighted sound as he recognizes the steady beat of Agron’s tone as singing. 

It’s faint, mostly old Alptraum that Nasir cannot make out, but Agron quietly sings lullabies down at Malik. He has one of his palms against Malik’s chest, the light pressure a security even though it seems like Agron’s palm is larger than Malik’s chest. The baby looks perfectly content to drool on Agron’s bare arm, gumming at it a little before his eyes get heavy and sleep takes him under. 

Agron sets him in his crib, tapping some of the crystals to spin above him, before he starts for the settee again. He pauses when he hears Nasir’s noise of distress, turning back to his husband. It’s a silent conversation, Nasir lifting the blanket behind him and Agron going to him, shedding his clothes along the way and sinking into the mattress. He wraps his arms around Nasir, holding him tightly against his chest, enveloping him in a tight embrace as they fit together, Nasir’s back to his chest. 

For once, nothing disturbs them. No one comes to their door. No emergency calls them away. The three royals sleep through the rest of the night.


End file.
